Dancing with Shadows to Quell the Darkness
by WareTheVenom
Summary: "You sleep lightly, Wild One. That is wise."Choices, choices...Isaviel Farlong has plenty. Most of all: will she choose good or evil? And who does she really care about, anyway? But two things are for certain: she must face the Githyanki, and must defeat the King of Shadows. Events of NwN2, some MotB. Disclaimer: I own none of NwN/2 etc or Forgotten Realms stuff.
1. Prelude

The candle flame flickered hot and bright close to her pale fingertips, a thin trail of smoke rising up to fade into the otherwise pitch black of the room. That heat should have burned her, but she felt no pain and suffered no injury, seated there cross-legged on the wicker stool, her eyes closed and her breathing steady. Already sharpened for the next day's hunt, twin kukris glinted in the light on the table just by her other hand, which lay palm up and deceptively relaxed.

Concentration was key here – she had long ago _sensed_ that the fire in the small sitting room had grown cold, and now she was aware of a presence entering the house. But she knew those footsteps and did not stir from her position – she could feel her goal was almost reached. Increasingly she was becoming conscious of the darkness in the room, a warm presence soft against her skin like a cloak. Opening her eyes slowly, she found that she could see the candle's flame _through_ her fingertip, and the outline of her whole body had blurred into the shadows. She felt light, weightless almost…

"Your concentration upon your studies is admirable, Isaviel…in spite of the things I have been hearing. Your diligence at the housework duties I set you…less so," the voice of her Elven foster father, Daeghun, sounded with his usual grudging tone from behind her.

Sighing, Isaviel let her form return to its usual corporeality, her hands dropping to her sides as she watched Daeghun making his way around the table. Opening one of the shutters on his way so as to gain the aid of the full moon in the darkness which his foster daughter had created, he set to work restarting the fire.

Isaviel watched him silently until the flames were leaping in the hearth once more. Her mother had been an Elf, although most certainly not one of the Wild Elves as Daeghun was. With hard, if still chiselled, tanned features and dirty blonde hair, he did not much resemble his ward. Nor could she quite grasp the unfamiliar tone in his voice – serious and cold, the seasoned Mere ranger did not often give out praise. When it came to Isaviel, he never did. It made her wary, not pleased.

"You want to say something, don't you?"

"Yes, Isaviel," he sounded tired, continuing to stare into the fire with his back to her for a few more moments before looking around, and when he did his green eyes fixed upon her with a grim stare. She noticed that he was not dressed in his hunting leathers this day, but rather his brown tunic and trousers, the ones he wore when he ventured over the river into West Harbour to meet with the humans. That normally meant conversing with her teacher, Brother Merring, and learning what more trouble she had got herself into.

"If it's about…"

"We have discussed your future."

"Have we?" Isaviel, mocking him with feigned surprise, "And why, pray tell, was I not invited?"

He ignored that.

"Brother Merring loves you dearly, as if you were his own, and, as I have said, you apply yourself well to the tasks of the monkish Orders which he sets you. But you are also…diverging too much from the other behaviours expected of one of your vocation."

"Protect the weak? Feed the poor, tend the sick?" Isaviel stood quickly, and noticed when he flinched at the incredibly swift movement. Her training had brought her 'unnatural side' as he liked to call it more to the fore than anyone had expected. And it had failed to reign in an unexpected penchant for the lawless things in life.

"You mock me to hide from what I must say because you know already what that shall be," Daeghun frowned, "Your unruly actions have given Brother Merring no choice – you have proven yourself uniquely ill equipped in temperament to eventually seek the Order of the Sun Soul. You better resemble a follower of your mother's god, the Lone Wolf, than you do his Lathander. But you cannot stay here – anymore of your mischief and I will have to report you to Georg Redfell myself, and we both know what he thinks of you. Nor can Brother Merring train you any further – your skill already extends beyond anything he taught you."

Isaviel blinked at him in blank surprise. Her beratings had never gone this far before – it would appear Merring and Daeghun had been planning this for some time, as poorly as her foster father had delivered it. She felt like laughing in his face – he seemed to think he was punishing her, but more than any of them she had always known that the Sun Soul would never take her. She had never wanted to be trained in this manner at all – but Merring had been teaching her in the arts of discipline and concentration since she was five years old.

Even at that age her mysterious origins, those stemming from her unknown father, had begun to show themselves. Daeghun had consulted with Merring, a priest of Lathander, as well as the town wizard, Tarmas. They had all agreed that she was not a Tiefling of sorts… thus not one of a half-Devilish nature. It was more typical for Demons to be parents to such children anyway, offspring who would oft sport tails, horns and reddish eyes. As a toddler, Isaviel had begun to sprout grey-feathered wings instead. The scars remained by her shoulder blades from what she suspected must have been Daeghun's answer to hiding her heritage, though he had never admitted it. She had possessed a violent temper, too, and in a rage a red glow would grow in her pupils – something which had made them wonder if she really were Demonic or Devilish somehow. Otherwise, however, she could easily have passed for a Moon Elf of Myth Drannor blood, as her mother had been. So they had sought to help her control her rages and had hacked off her wings. 'All for the greater good.'

"I want you to leave for Neverwinter. Merring has contacted the monkish Order of the Even-Handed there. And you will be staying with my brother, Duncan, at his establishment The Sunken Flagon."

Isaviel did laugh then. A bitter laugh…she had always dreamed of escaping the Mere of Dead Men, the marsh in which West Harbour lay, to go to Neverwinter, or maybe Waterdeep. _That_ would have been to seek her fortune, not to be tossed aside and entrapped by another monkish Order. For the moment, though, she could not argue. She would bide her time, make sure she was well away from her controlling foster-father, and then she would be free. And to all the Hells with discipline and the Order of the Even-Handed.


	2. A Father's Ultimatum

"Quickly! This way!" Isaviel hissed, golden eyes gleaming large and bright and oh-so-mischievous in the first flickers of flame as she gestured to her Tiefling companion, Neeshka.

The two shared a grin before bolting down the nearest side alley. The first shouts of alarm were just going up from the wonderfully flammable hideout of the latest upstart threat to their guild of thieves. Moire would be especially pleased this time – they had made sure to load Caleb's waiting cart absolutely full of their rivals' gold, looted from them in their slumber, to take back to the guild.

"Ha! We've finally got them!" Neeshka exulted once the pair were securely perched along the top of one of the many sturdy but cramped houses of the area.

It had been a simple thing, to scale the wooden frame of a nearby building, silent as shadows as they watched the flames rise from the rickety, dilapidated building ahead. Separated a little from the rest of this cramped back corner of the Docks District it had not seemed too dangerous to light the fire – yet also not an implausible 'accident' in such a haphazard area.

Isaviel allowed her grin to spread, warmed by fire, as they watched their handiwork brighten in the cool night, dancing against the gloomy, uneven form of this section of the city. Finally the alarm went up and the Watch could be heard rushing to the scene, arms and armour clattering typically. But they would find no evidence there, just a suspicious band of escaping ruffians cursing as they stumbled into the street. All they could do was run for water and try to stop the fire spreading.

"I think we've earned ourselves a long night of merriment at the Flagon, Neeshka – however late the hour," Isaviel declared at length once it was absolutely certain that their handiwork was done.

"Right you are!" her friend was quick to agree, her high voice showing her cheer without restraint, the patches of red-mottled skin around the base of her slight horns growing darker against her pale complexion to denote her improving mood.

First, though, they would have to call at Moire's hideout a few streets down on the north side of the docks, nearer the sea. The pair moved accordingly, quickly regaining the street and taking another alleyway off the main road, not at all daunted by the dark, cramped city, dodging sleeping beggars and the calls of the most tenacious tavern-drinkers. Once, when cities were still new to her – how long ago did thirteen months seem? – it would have unsettled Isaviel. Still, she had never been alone in this place, having come upon Neeshka at Fort Locke as the Tiefling was sneaking away from Neverwinter. When Isaviel saved her from a group of corrupt fort guards who had been trying to recapture her for another bout of less brief torturing, Neeshka had preferred to tag along. And not just after Isaviel had looted the same fort for clothes and health potions to aid her, either.

"Let's not stick around too long, ok? Caleb's taunts make my horns itch," Neeshka complained, jolting Isaviel out of her thoughts…just as a great stab of pain tore through her chest, searing over her skin and causing her to stumble and cry out.

"Isaviel! What's the matter?" Neeshka cried in alarm, immediately looking about them for an attacker, rushing over to catch her slumped Elven friend.

"I-I…"it was hard for her to breathe, but the pain was receding – enough for the Moon Elf to recognise that the darkness was a little too dark. Her golden eyes fixed pointedly upon Neeshka's pink ones for a just a second longer than normal. _We are being followed_. _Something is wrong_, "It's my scar. I-it hasn't caused me any pain in years. But it's passing now." Another firm look. _We need to move. Now._

Immediately they were gone through the night, inhumanly silent feet covering ground as quickly as if they had never passed by. In this state Isaviel's strange heritage showed, shadows swelling and gathering over her, her own form seeming vaguer, blurred, transparent in places. It was as if she was becoming one of the fragile shadows cast by the dim lanterns in the streets ahead. Neeshka knew the way and had long ago learned that it was impossible to follow her friend like this.

The sounds of their pursuers started to catch up with them just as they rounded the corner that would bring them to the concealed side-entrance to Moire's hideout. The footsteps were oddly uneven, clicking and clacking alternately. They would have no time to get inside before they were attacked, that was for certain. The sounds were too loud; too close.

A soft whistle, barely audible to the Elf's inhuman hearing, was carried on the wind. A heart beat would have been too long a pause. Wheeling about, Isaviel was just in time to arc back away from a viciously serrated dart, unsheathing a dagger as she did so and sending it to bury itself deep in the throat of…her monstrous pursuer. Armoured in scraps of tattered leather and odd links of chain it was small and oddly proportioned, with very long, gnarled arms and large, bare, splayed feet. Manacles glowed around its ankles as if fresh from the anvil, and braided blue hair pooled about it as it collapsed to its knees, choking on thick yellow blood, almost tripping its companion whose abyssal black eyes fixed on Isaviel. They showed a hatred which she had never seen before.

"_Kalach-cha_!" it rasped, pushing aside its co-pursuer with enough force to send it sprawling into the gutter to die face-down.

The creature's own intense hatred seemed to have stalled it – that and its failed companion. As it reached for a throwing knife, dripping with poison and the Hells knew what else, a grin spread across Isaviel's face. Oh, how little it knew. Concentrating on the darkness about her and the transparency of her appearance, she propelled herself forward…and rode a shadow to appear in a blur of inky blackness behind the monster, whose eyes opened wide with shock as a double-edged kukri now protruded from its chest.

"What in all the Hells were they?" Neeshka exclaimed as Isaviel retrieved her weapons.

"I have no idea," Isaviel admitted softly, turning the closest creature over and looking over its green-skinned face, the raised dots of black scars and burn marks on its visage utterly alien to her. Those same manacles were around its wrists as well, and the other one had a metal collar around its neck.

"Well, they seemed to hate…you," Neeshka pointed out, "And they look like slaves."

Isaviel nodded thoughtfully, searching their armour for pockets, for anything tell-tale of a motive or an origin, but there was nothing. They would come back after their meeting with Moire and search more thoroughly soon, she surmised. There were acquaintances of hers in town who could find answers where neither she nor Neeshka had any expertise. Duncan, Sand.

"This is very bad," she told her friend, standing with a frown, "We have to find out the truth soon, Neeshka. Be on your guard," the Moon Elf looked about them and put a hand on the Tiefling's shoulder, "We need to get inside."

* * *

Not even an unusually large share of the loot and a surprising deficit of Caleb's insults at Moire's hideout could buoy Isaviel's spirits. Especially not when she and Neeshka returned to where they had left the creatures' bodies to find them…gone. Her skin had crawled and her mood had blackened, feeling far too helpless for her liking.

So it was that two pairs of glowing red eyes blinked out of the darkness into the West Street dominated by The Sunken Flagon, the broad, squat, detached inn, two storeys high above the ground. Its red-tiled roof, arcing with an oddly gaudy elegance at its eaves, was literally a sight for sore eyes. When Neeshka put a hand on Isaviel's arm, she initially flinched and automatically reached for a weapon, but her friend shook her and her thoughts span away from her inexplicable anger and her fear of being followed.

"Something's wrong," Neeshka whispered, "The street's too quiet."

It was true – no one was out leaning against one of the thick wooden posts holding up the awning to throw up into the gutter. No one was outside at all, and the entrance to the large tavern which made up most of the ground floor was closed.

"You're right," Isaviel murmured, "There are hardly any lights on in there."

They stalked across the deserted street and stopped facing each other across the frame of the double doors, listening intently. No sounds of battle could be heard, but nor could anything else. The silence was increasingly eerie – this would normally be a night of revelry, one where sailors were drinking their fill before the ships set off to collect the harvests from faraway lands.

Isaviel was first to push open the door on her side, stumbling into the dimly lit main half of the tavern to see Sal, the place's only reliable employee, scrubbing thick yellow blood from the central rug. So much for Nashkell, there would always be a stain blotting out that town on that part of the dyed pile crudely denoting a map of Faerûn. Quickly surveying the scene, she saw that Sal himself was unharmed, though he leapt to his feet with a fearful cry upon her entry, his night cap askew, and there were several upturned chairs, along with a few shattered glasses. The fire was blazing at least, and by it stood the muscular, battle-scarred form of her half-uncle, Duncan, wincing as he tipped whiskey onto a large cut on his left arm. He downed the rest of the bottle and only then looked round at her, as if he had been expecting just that entrance all along. A pause as the pain settled… then a smile warmed his weathered features and he approached, pulling her into a hug which she could not so warmly return. Affection had always suited her ill.

"Lass! I'm glad you're unhurt! You are unhurt, aren't you?" he held her out at arm's length to survey her with concern, then looked to Neeshka, who was just closing the doors, "The both of you, right?"

"Yes, yes, we're fine," Isaviel pulled away, running a small, deceptively delicate-looking hand through her thick midnight-blue hair until it snagged in the knotted plaits at the back of her head.

"We need answers, Duncan," Neeshka put in as her friend hesitated, the words all tumbling out even more quickly than usual.

Duncan's expression darkened and he moved naturally to the bar after unhooking a familiar metal pot from the fire.

"Come, the two o' ye. Draw up a stool each – I had hot cider waiting for ye, and it'll calm yer nerves. There's quite a bit of explaining to do, as it turns out."

Still silent, struggling with that odd prickling anger that welled like embers swelled by a breath deep inside her, Isaviel did as she was bid. Neeshka's tail was twitching anxiously – she had a nervous character, and the recent attacks had not helped. The Tiefling was evidently not comfortable enough to take a seat, angling herself by the bar so she had the best view of the doors.

"You. Drink," Duncan commanded sternly, instantly recognising the situation, "There'll be no more fights tonight in my inn. You too, lass."

Her half-Elven uncle pushed a mug of warm spiced cider into Isaviel's hands. Again, she did as she was bid, focusing on the heat of the liquid as she swallowed, imagining it burning away that odd, dark feeling inside. Closing her eyes she let out one long breath, and when they opened again they were her typical golden shade, large and bright and once more with black pupils.

"We were attacked openly in the street, Uncle," Isaviel told him after her next sip, "By a pair of monsters the like of which I have never seen. Green skin, black eyes…"

"Braided hair, manacled, dressed in scraps of armour, yes, I know," Duncan sighed, "That yellow blood has never been easy to clean away. One o' you girls might want to stitch in a new Nashkell for me," he winked when they both glared at him.

"You're hiding something – poorly," Isaviel pointed out. Frivolity always meant diversions in situations like these with Duncan, "You have seen these creatures before. Tonight is not the first time that you have come upon them, is it, Uncle?"

"No, no 'tis not, lass. Although it has been quite a few years now since last I slew a Bladeling or two. Twenty five years to be precise – the last I saw of them they were fighting as underlings of the extra-planar Githyanki on one of the…sides in the Battle o' West Harbour."

"Extra-planar?" Neeshka snorted, "That's a fancy word, especially coming from you."

"Hey, with you running in and out of here every which way at every which time, a man needs to know his ter-min-ology…" Duncan stumbled over the word all but deliberately, "All I'm saying's that those Githyanki creatures hail from one of the other planes – ours is the Prime Material and theirs is a stake in the Astral, serving their Lich Queen. And commanding those wretches, the Bladelings, to do their whims."

"The Battle of West Harbour," Isaviel breathed; her foster-father had never given much away about that event, but that it had occurred on the hills by her home town, and his wife Shayla along with her mother Esmerelle had both died on that day when returning to the village looking for her, "I…I know so little of that day."

"Aye. Yer father knows more on the matter than I, but I can say a little more yet. 'Twas there that the King of Shadows warred with some great evil warlock, while his devils and demons fought the Giths. And you two know how unlikely that is. We people of all about tried to join together to stem the slaughter that those Giths and shadow-priests had been dealing to the unsuspecting townspeople for the past year. But it was that warlock and his battle with the King of Shadows that seemed to put a stop to it. In their wake was just a great charred scar in the centre of town…and so many silver shards. I picked up one, so as to 'never forget' and Daeghun did the same, in memory of yer ma and his Shayla."

Isaviel felt her anger rising again at the mention of her foster father's name and bit back her angry words, clutching her mug and instead opting to try to divert the topic.

"But what are the Bladelings doing here now after all these years? Why did they attack me, and why did they come here?"

"I can't answer all o' them questions, lass, but I did catch one o' those I killed trying to make off with my shard – here, take a look." And he placed a palm-sized object, smooth-faced and jagged edged, shimmering silver and reflective as any mirror onto the table-top between them.

"They wanted this?" Isaviel asked softly, moving to touch it and snatching her hand back when magical energy fizzed at her fingertip. Her scar was hurting again; she moved to rub at that absentmindedly instead, and did not fail to notice Duncan's confused recognition of her response to the magic.

"That's odd," he mumbled, "It's never shown any magic before," he picked it up and turned it over in his hands, then looked up at her blankly "It's warm. That's…odd. I'll have Sand look it over in the morning."

"There's something else, isn't there?" Isaviel demanded more than asked.

"Yes lass, there certainly is," Duncan nodded, "I had word from Daeghun this morning – he had West Harbour's town wizard Tarmas contact Sand directly. Yer foster-father wants ye home to retrieve his shard and to find the truth of all this."

"It's almost like he knew I would be attacked today."

"He said nothing of the ki…"

"He _did_ know I would be attacked today," Isaviel allowed herself to snarl this time, downing her drink and turning away to stalk to the fire, "Why should I find out about his shard for him? Can he not drag his wretched body up to Neverwinter himself? He is hardly decrepit."

"Now, now lass. I know me half-brother's all grim faced and gruff but he does only want the best for ye. You'll learn that in good time, I'm sure."

"Do not speak to me of him like that."

"Daeghun sent you here…"

"To try to reign in my wicked ways" Isaviel spat out the words and tasted blood, "Duncan, he sent me to the Temple of Tyr. He tried to have me indoctrinated as a monk of the Even-Handed order, to have me 'saved'. But he was wrong. I have no leaning towards law or structure. It was on _those grounds_ that they would not take me. They did not even consider my evilness," _morality is just a word _…_I feel nothing at all_, "We both know the law does not suit me."

"But you could have left us altogether," Duncan pointed out, "If yer really wanted to be rid of yer father you'd have up and left for Waterdeep or – maybe more to yer liking – Luskan by now. He did not want to see you fall into dark ways, lass. A path I fear ye'll get more tangled in every day."

"I do not need your council, Uncle. My choices have been as clear as I wish to you so far. There is life here, and there are friends," she tried to smile at Neeshka and found that her voice was shaking, her rage all spent.

"I know it makes ye angry," Duncan nodded, putting his hands on her shoulders as she turned to face him, brown eyes fixed on her golden ones, his half-Elven features softer and larger than hers, denoting his Human side…where she appeared to have none at all, "I know it does, but I do believe ye still care – and if nothing else ye'll be wanting the truth behind the Gith attack."

He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her to the side door at the other end of the room, pausing to open it and lowering his voice so only she could hear.

"When the red anger takes you, remember yer ma Esmerelle. She and Daeghun and Shayla all loved you, and he does yet. She would want ye to know the truth, but the way is not to wade through blood. And that's what Daeghun fears. He'd like ye back for the Harvest Fair. Gives ye tonight to decide whether or not to go home – but remember that without this homecoming ye'll struggle for answers, and might be that another attack comes when ye least expect it."

"I prefer to choose when to run," Isaviel sighed, but nodded resignedly, "But I need no time to think on this. The sooner I am in West Harbour, the more likely I will be to leave straight after the Harvest Fair. I have no wish to linger in that place. I will go at first light."

"Good, lass. There's still a threat to avoid after all – and go for the shard Daeghun promises, or go for love, I can't make ye say which is more important to ye and it doesn't matter. Now, off with ye – before I notice all that loot in yer pack."

With a smile, Isaviel nodded to Neeshka and turned for the passage to her bedroom, pausing when Duncan called after her.

"I'll have Sand write down all that he uncovers. Be safe, lass."


	3. Into the Flames We Leap!

The road back to Neverwinter would not be so as easy as had been the journey 'home' to dingy, damp West Harbour, Isaviel feared. Though it would require less persuasion for her to take it – she would be most glad to return to her rooms at The Sunken Flagon; to her mischief and escapades with Neeshka. The promise of three weeks at Daeghun's house made her stomach turn. He had not come out to greet her, though their old neighbours the Starlings had. Bevil had stared at her goggle-eyed, and she had smiled sweetly back, as if his mother Retta had not nearly once…caught them. Though she seemed to bear the Moon Elf no ill will.

Amidst the scattered homesteads of the 'town', the Starling farm was the last homestead before the swamp proper – Daeghun did not technically live within the border of West Harbour, but rather just over the deep, murky depths of the river there. The bridge had rotted and collapsed the month before, leaving just the raft across the waters. They had struggled to pull it over – Daeghun obviously had not crossed into human land in some time, preferring to hunt alone.

Her old home was large, with two full storeys along with her attic room and the basement-level pantry. Daeghun had been restringing his bow by the window when she came into the sparse living room, almost like he had meant to shoot her rather than greet her. His green eyes had been distant, his tone as severe as ever, but he had put a hand on her shoulder and startled her by directing his foster daughter to the fireside, upon the table by which rested a meal of meat, cheese and freshly made bread. And bread was soon to become a commodity.

Isaviel had spent her time reacquainting herself with the town, fishing with Bevil though the catches were fewer and smaller every day, playing pranks on Tarmas with Amie his ward – and her childhood friend. She avoided her old teacher Brother Merring utterly, and he seemed to have understood her need to do so, for he did not come to visit. Besides, she heard he was busy entreating his god Lathander and his wife the nature goddess Chauntea to give them a harvest…any harvest. They did not have enough supplies in store to last another twelve months, though the previous harvest had been a lucrative one.

The head of the militia, Georg, did not like her and told her to watch her step within the second day of her return. His wife's family the Mossfelds were even less subtle in their threats. They sent one of their three sons to dog her steps and menace her at every trip to the north of town. The day she tricked one into a hunter's trap and it nearly cut off his leg was the day that stopped. No one needed to know that she had laid it.

As the Harvest Fair grew closer, the darkness descended and failed to shift; an eerie gloom filled the lives of the West Harbourmen. Their crops died in vast swathes and no more fish were to be found in the rivers and pools. Children started to get ill from that same water – soon it had to be boiled or slow death followed. Whispers of an old doom started coming back. The stories of the King of Shadows were revived, though Daeghun refused to elaborate for Isaviel and no one else was much more forthcoming. Even by her old friends she was less trusted than before – as if the city had tainted her. Or as if she had tainted the town. Still, somehow she knew that the change must be linked to the Bladelings' return and therefore probably also to the shards. Soon Daeghun would give her his shard, she knew, and then she would be on her way. He would not like her lingering long in a dark place like this.

When the day of the Harvest Fair came, that annual commemoration for the decades' past Battle of West Harbour, the sun barely seemed to have risen, so thick were the clouds. The fog had at least abated a little, but the air was still damp and close. People were making the most of it, setting up their typical brightly coloured tents, starting to drink before midday. Children were playing with wooden sticks in the 'duelling arena' as Isaviel watched their faint shapes moving in the fog from her vantage point in her attic room. Finishing lacing her tunic, she saw Daeghun loading the raft with his archery gear and was glad they had missed each other that morning – less glad that she would have to go and help out later. This was a particularly grim day for him, the annual reminder of the death of his wife Shayla and her best friend, Isaviel's mother Esmerelle. And the reminder that Isaviel had survived, a two year old unconscious, miraculously alive and with a great gash down her chest. A scar that had never gone away. A scar that had roared with pain at the arrival of the Bladelings, as if it had a memory of the part in the battle which they had played.

Grabbing a disappointingly small apple on her way out, Isaviel was glad to see the new bridge had been completed, but as she moved to cross it she paused. There was something wrong, something _worse_. The odd, perpetual gloaming was almost familiar by now, but the water seemed darker, thicker. For a moment she could have sworn the water was not water at all, not running at all, but ancient, congealed black blood. And the air was too warm, with no breeze at all. She reached for her kukris to steady her nerves, glad to be wearing them openly over a tunic and leggings today rather than strapped to her legs beneath a more customary dress. She had even determined to put on her travelling boots, hoping she could be away by nightfall. This was the memorial day of the Battle of West Harbour after all, and Daeghun had only asked her to stay this long.

"What in the Hells are you wearing, Elf?" the youngest Mossfeld approached from the town side of the river, his eyes hard behind his sneer.

"Why? More interested than you'd care to admit?"

Isaviel pretended to flick her hair, at the same time as unsheathing the dagger kept behind her back. In a swift movement too fast for his Human eyes to see she shoved him back as hard as she could, pressing the small weapon to his neck, the pair concealed in the swamp gloom.

"Alright, just get away from me," the young man winced when his attempt to push her away only led to her knife drawing a few beads of blood.

"Start following me again and you'll only end up like you brother," the Elf warned, her golden eyes sparkling more than the dim light should have allowed. Seeing the red in her pupils the Mossfeld boy grew pale, visibly quivering.

"You should really learn how to use that thing before you go causing trouble, girl," a second Mossfeld, a bigger one, snarled, stepping out from behind the nearby fishing hut with his elder brother. They had clubs in their hands and eagers gleams in their eyes.

"You can't be serious," Isaviel tried not to sound as anxious as she was beginning to feel, "You mean to attack me now, in broad daylight? When the whole town is out nearby for the Fair?"

"We know about you and your dancing through the shadows. And we've the Mayor to back us, or had you forgotten?"

Isaviel started to back up, meaning to run for her house if she had to, but they advanced too quickly. A club came swinging towards her, slamming into her shoulder as someone took hold of her elbow-length plait of hair and yanked, send her to stumble in an arc to the ground, crying out when a second club hit.

"We know what you are, monster, even if you don't," one snarled, only for his eyes to widen in shock and dying pain as a strange silver-blue spearhead erupted from his chest. His brother shouted in alarm, and one had the sense to knock back the unexpected attacker only to fall to the grasping hands of another materialising Bladeling.

Isaviel took the opportunity to reach up and slit the remaining Mossfeld's throat, pushing him towards the second Bladeling while she dealt death to the first, spinning to fell the second with a single cut. When it was dead the Moon Elf stood at the centre of five corpses, gasping, dazed and sore, with red fire blazing in her eyes.

It was then that the first fires showed, the first sounds of battle rang out and Amie's shrill scream could be heard not far away – and never forgotten. Somehow Isaviel knew it was Amie – it had come from the house beyond the fishing hut. Tarmas's house. As sounds of distant battle rang more uniformly in the opposite direction, Isaviel ran along the river bank until she could see bright, blinding lights cutting through the fog. In fact the spell battle ahead seemed to be burning the mist away, revealing Tarmas first, pulses of purple light streaking from his beautifully wrought staff. His back was to Isaviel, but she could see his familiar blue, brocaded coat, and his thinning white hair standing on end. Blood was running down his neck in a swift river from a cut at his temple, and the ground around him was torn up, charred clumps of moss scattered about his feet.

The magical energy emitted by the staff pushed aside the fog as it travelled, leaving a clearer view of his house – its newly scorched window frames and smashed front door. And Amie, lying so still, face down in the mud, at the feet of a tall, wiry-limbed creature. Its skin was a sickly shade, mottled all over with dark green patches, its teeth sharp and icy white, with no lips at all and its face was permanently twisted into a snarl. It had no nose to speak of and a line of rings denoted the start of its hairline, where grey-green braids had been twisted into a topknot. Upon its belt shimmered an ethereal curved sword and in its hands was a staff of blue glass. It took the magic missiles set by Tarmas with barely a grunt, though it was dressed in a tunic of simple brown cloth and apparently no armour at all. It at once reminded Isaviel of the Bladelings and did not at all resemble them…and its pale yellow eyes, so full of malice, had settled upon her.

"There is nowhere to run, _Kalach-cha_," it hissed at her in a guttural, rasping voice, "You shall not last the road back to the city."

Now when Tarmas's lightning bolt would have hit it a shimmering bubble of protective energy rebounded the attack, to send the electricity arcing to the wizard's house, where flames quickly caught. The smell of smoke filled the air where it had merely hung on the wind before.

"Damn you, Gith!" the wizard snarled, "You will pay for that, and die a slow death for what you have done to that helpless girl."

The Githyanki just laughed; a grating, choking sound.

"Oh, you fool. My work is done here. You have been so predictably…distractible."

With a burst of white light a ring of smoke rose in front of the Gith and briefly, a shimmering world of blue and whites could be seen before it stepped through and the portal dissipated.

"Amie! Amie, can you hear me?" Isaviel cried, rushing to her fallen friend and turning her over, to look into vacant eyes. Anger rose like knives tearing at her throat and she looked up at Tarmas's unguarded expression of grief, "Wh-why?" she snarled.

"That is your burden to bear, not mine," the wizard sighed, leaning on his staff now, truly looking old, "Your father has left this too long. You must find him before the Giths do and take his shard back with you to Neverwinter. There is an alchemist there at the Blacklake District, by the name of Aldanon. He was a well-respected scholar of the planes when the Giths last came to this place – he may know why it is they seek you. I was about to send Amie to you, to bring you the map…this map," he walked over to where Amie lay and Isaviel knelt by her side to lift a blood-stained, muddied scroll from the dented earth, "when that wretched Gith sorcerer broke into my house and dragged her out here. But if you get away now, with that shard, her death will have been in vain but you may yet live, if you follow the route on that map back to Neverwinter. And that could save many lives. Here. Take it and go. Mourning here will bring you only your doom."

Eyes blazing once more, Isaviel stood resolutely and took the map from the wizard. She could not bring herself to speak and instead darted into the slowly clearing fog. There were no shadows to hide in here, but her silent footsteps leant her a distinct advantage. Twice she aided in slaying groups of Bladelings, and stopped a few more butchering the corpses of familiar Harbour folk. But so many houses had already been irrecoverably burned to help people's livelihoods or homes. The place was doomed to be a ruin come nightfall, she knew. They all knew it; the air was thick with smoke, choking smoke where once there had been harmless fog. Everywhere it seemed people were screaming, trapped by fire and faced with death, or stumbling blindly, coughing and gagging, only to be caught by Bladelings and killed where they stood. Neither smoke nor heat had ever much bothered Isaviel – perhaps yet another indicator of her unknown father's heritage. But fear and anger was all about, pain and suffering audible and visible and not often stoppable.

These half-seen horrors in the gloom, screams amid the noise of crackling fires, collapsing houses and, more distantly, the ring of weapons coming together, only fuelled her vengeful anger. She all but forgot her mission to try to find Daeghun – she had seen the tents, and they had all been burned or torn down. From what she could make out, his had never even been put up. Like he knew it would have been pointless. There was nowhere left that she could expect to find him, save perhaps their home. And all directions seemed to promise the same dangers. She lost herself to rage, and her tunic was soaked in Bladeling blood by the time she came upon the battle proper.

She saw Georg Redfell driving his sword into the throat of a felled Githyanki, only for his brother to be pushed into the dank water of the swamp beyond the low wattle palisade around town. Maybe twenty men, and a further five women, of the town guard faced some fifty Bladelings; most of the defenders were surrounded, huddling in a ring at the centre of the scarred rise at the north-eastern edge of town. Using the advantage of surprise, Isaviel stabbed two Bladelings in the back, ducking when those either side of them turned to respond, and hamstringing them both as she did so.

Snarling, she pivoted away from the next attack and saw that Georg did not come to her aid, but rather stood watching, staring dispassionately. Did he know about his nephews, the Mossfelds? Another Bladeling fell to her, and another…but then she was surrounded, and their eyes were so bright with hate.

"_Kalach-cha_," there it was again, and again. Their mantra, the term she had first heard to describe her by her second Bladeling attacker in Neverwinter. The Githyanki and the Bladelings seemed to think they knew her, but she could not comprehend how or why.

Now it took all of her strength to dodge and parry, taking cuts increasingly frequently. She dealt no more damage and knew her luck was fast running out. Until the familiar whistle of arrows flying filled the air, and she knew to duck. More than half of her attackers – and those surrounding the guards, too – fell, and the rest staggered back in alarm, only for two more to take arrows to their chests and the third to be killed by a town guard. Daring to breathe, Isaviel turned to see Daeghun and the other town archers approaching from the swamp. A cry went up, a chant of his name, and though a smile found its way to his foster-daughter's lips, she did not join in.

* * *

"The fight we have faced this morning may be done, my daughter, but West Harbour has not seen the end of conflict. Not while my shard remains here," Daeghun was warning Isaviel as she stared down at the silver shard he had handed to her, turning its magically heated surface over in her hands.

"Whatever that was, I hope it was worth wading through the marshes for," Bevil Starling put in doubtfully from where he sat on a pond-side rock, cleaning his greatsword, "You would not believe how many Bladelings those archers made me charge."

"We needed a distraction and could spare no other soldiers," Daeghun snapped, but his tone soon cooled, "Your help was greatly…necessary, and your success undoubted."

"I have to leave. I have to find the truth," Isaviel murmured, barely listening, the facets of the shard reflecting in her eyes.

"First and foremost you have to save this town, Isaviel. The Giths will be back soon if they do not sense that their quarry is moving away," Daeghun corrected curtly, and her eyes snapped up to meet his defiantly.

"I came for the shard before all of this started – I will take it for myself, not for you, not for this town," Isaviel spat, "They attacked me first, and it looks like you know more than you claim. I think you could have stopped this if you'd wanted to, so do not talk to me of selfishness and the 'right thing'."

For a moment it looked like Daeghun had been slapped, and guilt crossed his face. A great sadness was visible…and then his look became steely once more. He made no move and spoke no words when Isaviel moved past him, snatching her cleaned travelling clothes from by the fire, stalking through the huddled groups of stunned and grieving survivors and across the river. Bevil caught up to her at the shattered door of her otherwise untouched house.

"We will miss you here. The guards said you fought well today," he told her in a rush, and she looked around to smile sadly at him, seeing the fear in his eyes. He was easily over a foot taller than her, strong and broad and armed in chainmail…and yet he was afraid. Terrified where she was not.

"I am not the only one leaving, Bevil. Not this time at least. Look at the houses – how many do you see unburned? West Harbour is lost – go to Highcliff, to Waterdeep, look for work in Neverwinter…but you cannot come with me. I have to get through the marshes to the coast."

"And you have to do it alone," Bevil sighed, clearly utterly downcast.

"You're a good friend, Bevil," Isaviel tried to smile – why did those words feel so hollow now?

Unexpectedly he pulled her into a tight hug, and when he let go he leaned closer as if he might kiss her, but she put a hand against his chest and pushed him back gently. Neverwinter had definitely changed what she wanted from life.

"Fare well, Isaviel Eventyr," he said softly, uncharacteristically serious, "Come back to us when your quest is done."

"Thank you," she nodded, but knew in her heart that she would never do that.

Two hours later, dressed once again in her travelling clothes, Isaviel had shouldered her pack, wrapped herself in a weather-beaten black cloak she had found in a basement chest and disappeared into the evening mists of the marshes. Years of West Harbour hunting with Daeghun had left her an expert at travelling in the area, off the road and away from travellers. The way would not be easy, but she knew what she had to do.


	4. The Path and the Stars

"You sleep lightly, Wild One. That is wise."

Harsh yellow eyes tore through the fog of her sleep.

Isaviel sat up with a start, kukris already in her hands. No tall figure loomed over her, though she had somehow expected it. How clear that voice had seemed, rumbling with a many-voiced echo! It had been just a dream, she told herself, but somehow it had felt like more than that. That voice, those eyes – they were not familiar, but they were _important_. It was not the first time she had dreamed of eyes like those and woken convinced that they were watching her – but never before had she heard the voice or been so convinced of a physical presence. Her skin crawling, she readied herself to stand though sleep had barely taken her.

There was something else which had her looking about herself anxiously, as well – a more immediate problem. She knew by now that she was being followed, though by whom she was not certain. Bladelings? Githyanki? Or something else? Either way, she did not wish to stand still and wait for them, and rather pulled on her pack which had been serving as a pillow, checking the shard was still there. Once this was affirmed she headed in the direction that Tarmas's map indicated, wondering why it was that she felt so certain of his information's veracity. But his words did prove true and soon she was walking down the narrow westerly path out of the Mere and well before midday she had reached the small inn named The Weeping Willow.

Sheep roamed the hill nearby, and several horses waited in rudimentary stables. She arrived in time to see a stocky, bearded Dwarf bursting out of the front door into the muddy yard, pursued by two men jeering at him and a third who remained silent but held a knife behind his back. Instantly it reminded her of the way the Mossfeld brothers had come at her and she sped up her pace, soon able to make out what they were saying.

"Give us your gold, Dwarf, and it might be that we let you go free," one of the men was warning as the Dwarf rounded on them, fists held up and ready for a fight.

"Ha! Might be that I rather beat ye into th' ground for lookin' at me funny, or it might just be that ye all need a nice good beatin' to remind ye to mind yer manners," the Dwarf scoffed, but his would-be robbers only laughed at him.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we have you outnumbered."

"Oh wait, that's true – maybe ye should call out some more friends and even the odds a little. Before me victory turns out too easy," the Dwarf suggested.

"I've had enough of this," the man holding the knife snarled, "I say we cut his throat and take the gold from his corpse."

It was at this point that Isaviel reached the open gate of the small yard, and the two so far unarmed men turned to look threateningly at her. The Dwarf did not seem to notice, eyeing up the other man – this was promising; he had evidently reached the same conclusion about the real threat among his tormentors as she had.

"You keep out of this, Elf. You keep on walking and we'll pretend this never happened."

"I'm sure you would," she smiled sweetly, still approaching unconcernedly, "But I'm afraid that I could not do the same. Such brutality and mindless theft! You should at least have the sense to rob a sleeping man. Or cut his throat when he looks away."

They just gawped at her in confusion, and she took the opportunity to draw a kukri and throw it with a quick snap of her wrist, where its two-sided blade buried deep in one man's throat. At the same time, the dagger-wielding third moved to attack the Dwarf, who caught his stabbing arm with lightning fast reflexes, twisting it until he shrieked, a bone snapped and the dagger fell with a splat into the mud. One more simple hit and he fell to the earth, never to rise again. The third man moved to run for the stables, presumably to steal a horse, but Isaviel was quicker and drove her second kukri through his back and into his heart. She caught a glimpse of a brand on his neck as he dropped to the earth; the sigil of Cyric.

"Me thanks, Elf," the Dwarf called.

She turned to see him holding out her kukri to her, already wiped clean of blood. She took it from him warily, taking in the sight of his dark eyes, which were overhung with bushy brown brows to match his untidy half un-plaited beard. His clothes were surprisingly clean but very simple – a white tunic with a red sash and brown linen trousers tucked into broad, cracked old travelling boots. For one who fought so well he wore no armour. She feared she knew what that meant.

"You need not thank me. I had no choice but to help – they would have slain me later, or tried to, if I had not turned on them then."

"That's true, lass, though I'd wish it weren't," the Dwarf nodded, automatically helping her drag the bodies out of the yard and into a nearby ditch, "Either way, I'm glad ye were passing through. Makes for more fun when there's someone to share the victory with."

"You are no stranger to conflict," Isaviel noted when they were done, staring down at the three bodies dispassionately, "You have done this before, as well."

"That's true, lass, though I'd not say I'm proud of it," he paused, turning to look over at her, "The name's Khelgar by the way, of the clan Ironfist. I'm pleased t' have crossed paths with ye."

"Isaviel Farlong…of the blood of Myth Drannor," she smirked, relieved when amusement showed in her acquaintance's eyes at her slight parody of his phrasing.

"Where're ye headed, Isaviel wishing-she-was-of Myth Drannor still?"

"To Highcliff docks, to seek passage," she told him at length, but he seemed to see through her feeble attempt to mislead him.

"That's one o' the ways to Neverwinter, though it's not the quickest," he noted, "Running from something are ye? Well, the High Road ain't much to me liking either, and I needs get meself to Neverwinter too, so if ye'd like the company…"

"You have shown yourself to be an admirable fighter," Isaviel conceded, suddenly feeling very weary, "I think I would feel better with you at my side, Khelgar of the Ironfist."

"Ha! I'm glad for the sentiment lass. I wish the clan could feel the same. How about we take a drink of some o' the inn's finest to fortify that tired body o' yours for the journey ahead? It's a ways to Highcliff yet, and we wouldn't be there by sundown unless we had wings."

"Alright," Isaviel heard herself agree, to her own bewilderment, "If the inn will let us enter after what we did…"

"They'll be thankin' us for years to come. Those bastards had it coming, and everyone in that inn knows it and is glad we gave it to 'em."

* * *

It turned out Isaviel's fears about his attire were correct; Khelgar was an aspiring monk, having heard of their efficient and brutal battle skills. However, he did not seem to follow Tyr, the god of the Neverwinter order he sought to acquire training from, but rather Clangeddin and Moradin, the typical gods of his kin, the Dwarves. His reasons were less righteous or pious and more inexplicably brutal and bloodthirsty...yet for all that he seemed intent on the right thing, if not through justice, as the way he spoke of his attackers led Isaviel to surmise. Although this set her at ease regarding the fear of the Righteous Path she had been taught she should follow as a beginning monk, it was also disquieting for her. Back in Neverwinter she and Neeshka had cultivated a life of self-first tactics and crime for the fun of the risk and the challenge of success. Khelgar seemed ill-fitted for such. Yet she found herself warming to him, and realised such a fighter would be useful if she were to be attacked again by the Bladelings and the Giths. And such an attack seemed inevitable rather than hypothetical, a truth which would be proven to her sooner than she would have wished.

In spite of their afternoon beers, they were easily over half way to Highcliff by evening, with just the Mere forest to pass through before they were officially out of the Mere of Dead Men and back into the lands of the Sword Coast. Isaviel would have liked to press on through the night, but Khelgar was not used to such tireless travel and her own body was beginning to rebel. If she had dared to sleep properly she would have been dreaming of The Sunken Flagon, she knew.

Therefore they had stopped just inside a small forest and off the road, within a wide natural alcove with overhanging moss and down-jutting roots. They would inevitably be sharing their beds with falling spiders and the like, but no harm could come of that. Their fire was still smouldering, Khelgar snoring softly on the other side just out of sight through the thin, drifting smoke when Isaviel heard a branch crack above them. Her heart sank. Her pursuers had caught up with them. She had no time to rouse her friend before she saw six, maybe seven Bladelings creeping out of the woods towards them, with a few more audible above.

"_Kalach-cha_," a voice hissed, and that did wake Khelgar, who was on his feet with the same breath he had caught in his previous snoring, "I promised you that you would not escape."

Swallowing hard, Isaviel stood too and took up her kukris for what she fully expected to be her last time, watching the Githyanki mage from West Harbour materialising to stand and watch on a low rise by the great oak just ahead. Spitting and snarling, the Bladelings it held in thrall approached at an easy pace. Where could she go? She and Khelgar were trapped, and, quick as they were, seven Bladelings would certainly overcome them in time.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you, Khelgar," she sighed, coming up to stand by the dwarf, "I had no idea…"

"Don't apologise lass. We've no intention of dying yet, have we? This pack o' fools have no idea what's hit it, is all," Khelgar grinned, diving into a swift duck with an exultant roar when the first Bladeling swung at him.

Isaviel had no more time to think on the matter, for she had to sidestep the blade of her nearest attacker as well. But it soon fell to her blades, pushed back into two of its fellows while she made short work of a second. But two more came on seemingly out of nowhere, and she saw a further five appearing from the shadows where she had not looked before. And the Gith was chanting by the oak, magical energy swelling in his hands. What could they do?

A great roar shook the area as an unexpected tangle of vines erupted around the feet of the newly approaching Bladeling reinforcements. As confused as Isaviel, they struggled against their lively bonds to no avail, eyes widening in horror as a vast bear came charging in at them and tore off the closest one's head.

Trying to keep her unexpected advantage, Isaviel drove her blade into the gut of her closest assailant, immediately afterwards rolling away from the stab of a second, freeing herself from the confines of the alcove in which she had set up camp. By now the bear had killed three more trapped Bladelings and to her left Khelgar was snapping the neck of the one she had just evaded.

As the magical vines summoned to hold the other Bladelings sank back into the earth the bear also seemed to dwindle, staggering briefly under the hits of magical missiles streaming from the Githyanki's hands. Lashing out with all her strength Isaviel managed to drive back yet another attacker, kicking out at the other and spinning around, almost cutting off an arm with her wicked blades before ending a life.

Khelgar finished off the last Bladeling, and when they turned to see the sorcerer again they saw a young woman in the place of the bear. Dressed in a long patched brown dress and with knotted hair held back with a braid of vines, Isaviel surmised from this and her earlier magical display that she must be a druid. And her protective energies were fast failing her against the Gith's onslaught. But the shadows in the area were dark with only the moon to cast light feebly through the trees. Isaviel closed her eyes and felt them call to her. Accepting gladly, she felt her body become light and heard Khelgar's gasp as she became one with the darkness, a hazy dark form in an only marginally darker world.

As if she were a ship pulled by a strong wind she felt herself rush in the direction of the deepest shadows: the area behind the Gith, offset by the bright lights of his magics. He could not have known, and she understood enough about magic to know that he had recklessly used up too much energy to maintain a shield of his own. Twisting herself as fast as she could, Isaviel span around, gathering momentum, and severed the Gith's head. Immediately even greater darkness fell, and silence rang out but for the wind through the trees.

"What in all the Hells just happened?" Khelgar cried, approaching with obvious caution when Isaviel fully materialised again in the rays of the pallid moon, but she was hardly listening, for her eyes were fixed upon the bruised druidess before her.

"And who, pray tell, are you?" the Moon Elf demanded of the taller, more wiry woman – a human dressed in the attire of the 'Wild' Elves, "I am grateful for your timely aid, but I am not so grateful that you have been following me since I left West Harbour."

"You are most welcome, Isaviel…and I am sorry as well," the woman responded in a quiet, gentle voice, emanating a calmness that only served to put the Moon Elf on edge, "But I had to follow you. For I require your help as much as I would wish to aid you in your quest to uncover the truth of the shard you carry. I feel that it is linked with the animals' deaths in the Mere and the failure of the crops, to the thick, unnatural shadows and the plague carried in the water."

"You even know my _name_? How is this?"

"We of the Circle of the Mere have been watching West Harbour for some time. Daeghun is an old friend of our leader's, as well, and has told us some of his plans. We do what we must for the good of our lands...or at least we used to. Until the Circle was…lost…"

"I care nothing for your lands. And I do not trust one who will not give me her name," Isaviel hissed, stalking back to her bedroll and beginning to try to light the fire again while Khelgar dragged away the fallen Bladelings one at a time. She jumped when a burst of fire outdid her attempts with flint, and turned to see the druidess smiling down benevolently.

"My name is Elanee, and I am a druidess currently living in this forest. I travelled ahead of you – knowing the area as I do, I feared this would happen."

For a few moments more Isaviel watched her carefully – the way she smiled at her as if thoroughly understanding her distrust, the power she clearly possessed just in that one bout of flame. To command the elements as she had, and to shift into a bear…

"I would rather walk with you than shadow you – I think that we can be of some significant help to one another, and I would rather know Daeghun's ward is safe," Elanee was telling her, crouching down beside her and fishing through her pack as Khelgar re-joined them.

"What's this?" he asked, wrinkling his nose as she offered up a few small pearl-like berries to him.

"Mereberries," Elanee told him calmly, although Isaviel thought she saw a glint of frustration come into her eyes at the pair's evident on-going mistrust.

"She's not lying, Khelgar," Isaviel admitted, risking accepting hers and chewing on them thoughtfully, "My…foster-father Daeghun picks these in the winter when game is scarce and there aren't so many furs to sell." When no ill effects ensued and she felt their soothing effects helping heal her bruises and cuts, she continued, turning to Elanee and trying to look more kindly than she felt, "And I agree – if you do indeed speak truly, and so far I believe that you do, then I think we could be of help to each other…"

"What? Have you gone mad?" Khelgar choked, opting to sit on his bedroll across the fire even so.

"If she intended being a threat to us, Elanee has shown that she already possesses power enough to do that without deception," Isaviel pointed out to him.

Their new acquaintance nodded her head in gratitude, her thin, pointed features suddenly looking so very young with that brilliant smile and those freckled cheeks. If she were truly a druid of the Circle of the Mere as she had claimed, she must have been some sort of understudy to the elders, Isaviel surmised. Daeghun had told her a little of his dealings with them, and always he described them with great respect, reverence almost, of how they tended to the balance in the Mere, of how his hunting was carefully managed around their information. They were ancient forces of nature, chosen of Chauntea and Sylvanus, sometimes one or two of Eilistraee to even the balance. Spirit shamans, shapeshifters. Elanee was none of those things, not openly at least. The powers she had displayed were more rudimentary, and she was clearly very young – and human as well, in an area where West Harbour was the only human settlement in miles. Though Elves aged more slowly than humans, Isaviel had some experience on the topic, naturally, and could recognise Elanee's youth in her looks, and in her quick and emotive mannerisms.

"I am glad for your words, Isaviel," Elanee told her softly, her pale brown eyes glinting a little in the new flames, drawing her legs up against her chest and wrapping her thin arms about them, "If the path and stars read true, you are headed for Neverwinter. I know a quicker way through these woods. It is off the road but it will be one that the Githyanki cannot take nor track."

"We had intended to go to Highcliff to seek passage by ship, but…" Isaviel nodded in agreement, "The Gith knew we were here but they were clumsy in the forest, and their pursuit must mean that they know the path I was supposed to take," she took a breath and prepared to lie through her teeth, forcing a smile as she did so and watching Elanee's look brighten even more, "As one associated with the Circle, I will put my trust in you to guide us true."


	5. Blurring Boundaries

The old man stood before the fire, warming his hands as he listened to the quietening sounds of servants in the many halls of his grand Blacklake estate. Finally, after so many years, maybe there could be peace – or at least so he had dared to hope. It had not been such a hard price for them to pay, had it? For his silence. He always thought of this when he carried out his nightly ritual, when the darkness closed in and he could at once be glad for another peaceful day and begin the battle against his fear of the night…

"Dalren," a cold, harsh voice greeted from those dreaded shadows.

"Wh-who's there?" but the old man already knew. His time was up. There was nowhere to run – the first death had been yesterday, and this came as no surprise to him. For a moment he closed his eyes, shoulders slumping with the weight of his realisation, and then he dared to turn. He saw that figure before him, all too familiar, and began to look around the vast, richly furnished room with hopeless desperation.

"_Lord _Dalren now, I hear," the shadowed figure added mockingly, standing so still in the open doorway, utterly unconcerned. The whole house had crown quiet now, eerily so, and Dalren shuddered, knowing what that meant. "Quite a name you have made for yourself…on promises built from lies and swollen self-worth."

The intruder sneered at Dalren as he began to edge across the room, his hands fumbling along the mantelpiece. It amused him to see his old acquaintance as a cowering old man in the middle of a large, richly furnished sitting room.

"Please…I had no choice. I will – I will give you anything. And you…but you died, in the battle at West Harbour long ago!""

"Indeed," the newcomer responded, stepping more clearly into the light cast by the large fire and revealing a tall, straight-backed, robed man. His dark hood was pulled up over a face from which glowed a pair of white-grey eyes and lines of red and blue, veins of light pulsing across his cheeks and forehead, "Yes. My imprisonment was…most distressing. But how could I die when there is so much more left to do? You had no choice but to wait for a…death, and pray that it be quick, when you made your simpering promises and took your ill-begotten titles. You will not give me what it is I seek, though you are quick to promise."

"Will you…at least make it quick?" Dalren asked through fear-gritted teeth as green fire began to course down the other man's arms, along his veins to drip form his fingertips.

"I make no such promise," his doom replied, smiling coldly when Dalren tried to straighten up, to gather some dignity, "You will receive what is due to you. For your deceptions."

Green fire poured through the air, tearing through Dalren's body even as he crumpled to the polished floorboards, wondering at the unexpected numbness that fire sent through him after the wicked words of his attacker. Perhaps, he wondered as he struggled uselessly to focus misting eyes on the dreaded figure looming coolly above him, perhaps the price of silence had been too dear.

* * *

Isaviel realised she had been perhaps a little too hasty in allowing herself to feel relief upon opening the heavy, chipped old side-door of The Sunken Flagon. A blast of hot air sent her recoiling back against Khelgar, the smell of smoke and singed hair overcoming the even fouler smells of the night time Docks District.

"Please don't tell me this is normal, Isaviel," Elanee sounded resigned. She did not seem to immediately comprehend the seriousness of the situation, utterly out of her realm of experience in the busy, dirty city.

"Of course not!" Isaviel snarled, shooting her a startled look, "My uncle could be in danger!"

"Sound's like there's a battle ahead," Khelgar grinned, always ready for a fight, and never ashamed of that fact.

Righting herself and ignoring her companions' continuing comments, Isaviel forged ahead into the smog. Ahead, Duncan's voice could be heard raging with a string of expletives amidst the loud, incessant snarling of…a dog, was it? Amidst it all three high female voices slung insults at each other as if utterly oblivious to the inn owner's wrath.

The three new arrivals rushed inside the tavern area from the kitchens, the opening of the door allowing much of the smoke to dissipate. As they truly beheld the chaotic scene amidst the backdrop of several drunken patrons throwing punches across and atop the tables closest to the bar, a shriek rang through the room, a great tong of flame rushing forth, prickling Isaviel's skin and causing her to reel again from the unexpected pain. Fire had never hurt her before. This was strong magic – and she would brook no threat like that in her Neverwinter home.

"…Just because it takes you a shoreman's hour to cast a cantrip! I'm the one with the real power. You're just…amateurs," a petulant, girlish voice rose above the din of the brawl, vying with Duncan's threats for dominance.

Isaviel looked to the centre of the room to the see the source of the unusual flames. Three young women, dressed in shimmering, sky blue robes which looked utterly out of place on the mouldering map-patterned rug, were standing in the centre of the room. One of them was nervously trying to pull her expensive skirts from the snarling mouth of a mangy, wild-eyed grey wolf, while the other two stood facing each other, the speaker keeping magical flames licking at her fingertips threateningly.

"We practice restraint, Qara," came the response, "We do not rely on showy displays to prove that we are the ones with real power."

"Showy displays?" the young woman with fires in her hands sneered, her accent, just as those of her adversaries, marking her out as high nobility, "I've not even got warmed up yet," fury flashed in her eyes and arrows of flame began to coalesce in front of her open palms, "So why don't you just run along back to the academy instructors and your feeble Cloaktower aspirations before I set fire to this sad tavern and the whole sad street…"

"Oh no you won't!" Duncan interjected, "Or I'm calling more than the watch down on you!" he waded fearlessly between the two sorcerers, looking quite ridiculous brandishing his old notched battleaxe whilst still sporting his stained apron. His eyes locked briefly with Isaviel's and he nodded firmly.

The furious sorcerer just laughed condescendingly, but her rivals, the younger of whom having now freed herself from the wolf for the moment, glanced nervously at each other and then towards the three mismatched adventurers who had just arrived. Taking this as her cue, Isaviel stepped forward, unsheathing her kukris, looking for Khelgar's support only to see him charging headlong into the brawl instead.

"There will be no contests here, not in, not _near _this inn," Isaviel said firmly, and found that she meant it.

"We don't want any trouble with you," the two more nervous girls glanced towards Duncan now as he hefted his axe with as much menace as he could muster, seeing Sal managing to douse the last of the feeble flames curling about a charred chair nearby.

"Get ye gone then," Duncan growled.

"Fine. You might have got away this time, Qara, but at least you've in the Docks where you belong, where you can peddle yourself for cheap coin. Come, Glena, we have wasted enough time here." And just like that the two vanished in a hurried flash of light, leaving the wolf to pounce at thin air and land with a startled yelp on its lower jaw.

"I didn't need your help," Qara snapped, "In fact, I've a mind to teach you a lesson for underestimating…"

Her words became a yelp as Isaviel hurtled into her, taking her hand and forcing it behind her back, ceasing the swell of fire there, and the young woman staggered back, wailing, wild eyed with tears streaming over her cheeks.

"You're going to break my hand!" she shrieked, but no one even considered caring about that.

"You threatened to burn my inn down, girl. Restrain yourself, and we won't have to do that to you," Duncan suggested.

Still, a new bout of flame tried to arc from her free hand, until Isaviel caught her by the throat, forcing Qara to back up across the room until they hit a table and the Elf brought a kukri between them, giving her no choice but to stay against the wood. A man dressed in worn travelling leathers sat on a chair barely a foot away, a smirk playing across his features, a gloved hand running over the wolf's fur as it came to heel by him, still snarling at Qara, who was now whimpering pitifully.

"Please, please, just get _off_ me and I'll leave you alone...

"Get off you?" Isaviel heard herself laugh coldly. She could taste blood, a red haze clouding her peripheries, and her back ached horribly where her wings had once been. Something cold was running down over her skin there, but she hardly registered that.

"Bishop! Stop her, or I'll…"

Duncan's voice rang out clearly, and she felt a rough hand on her shoulder, pushing her with enough force to send her staggering back and Isaviel looked up at the unfamiliar man who had restrained her to see him laughing at her. He caught her swing lazily, twisting her hand until she hissed and dropped her weapon altogether, his other hand coming around to grab her braid of long midnight hair and yank back her head, hard.

"I think you'd better _calm down_, girl," he told her in a drawling voice that was more mocking than threatening.

"Let go!" Isaviel snarled at the man, bringing her free hand to bear and slapping him hard on the cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. He did not move away from the hit, and his eyes darkened.

"Hit me again and I'll burn that blistered cheek of yours some more until it leaves a _real_ scar," he did threaten this time, and now it was Isaviel's turn to laugh, attempting to hit him again anyway but soon realising her folly. A brief scuffle followed, but the man was laughing at her again, hardly trying and still easily fending her off.

"That's _enough_," Duncan's voice boomed with finality through the room, and the man let go of Isaviel, giving her a last push that unbalanced her enough to knock her to her knees.

"You're in_sane_ you monstrous _bitch_," Qara exclaimed, standing now, but backed up again quickly when the unknown man feigned a lunge at her, laughing heartily at her clear fear on his way back to his chair.

"By all the Hells, is there never a quiet night here…" Neeshka's voice sounded from the open front doorway and stopped with a gasp when she took in the scene.

"Take yer pick on conclusions," Duncan was saying as Isaviel dragged herself to her feet, looking around at her gawping Tiefling friend.

Duncan turned away from Qara for the moment to roar at the continuing brawlers, demanding they pay him back for all of their damage as well as throwing them out into the street with Khelgar's enthusiastic aid.

"As for you," Duncan turned on Qara again now after surveying the mess of shattered glass, overturned tables and scorched rafters, "You'll be paying for this too, girl!"

"I'm not paying you a thing," Qara spat, giving Duncan a disgusted look up and down, "You should have your little Elvish _monster_ arrested for her attack on me."

The young woman was careful to keep Elanee between her and Isaviel, who retreated to the fire to let this confrontation play out without her, accepting Neeshka' hug of greeting distractedly. Her eyes wandered over towards the man Duncan had addressed as Bishop, to see his stubble-shadowed face still twisted in that smirk, and his eyes watching her intently as he kept a hand on the back of his wolf.

"Oh yes you will. Or that academy of yours…"

"But I left the academy…right after burning down the stables," Qara proclaimed almost proudly.

Khelgar let out a long whistle and winked at Isaviel from where he had taken up a place at the bar.

"Oh, sure. It's not like she wasn't encouraged to leave after such a noble deed as that, ha!" And for those words Qara shot him a truly venomous look.

Neeshka gave the ale-slurping Dwarf a disgusted look and redirected herself further from the bar, sitting on the only armchair in the room, on the other side of the fireplace from Bishop's seat, her tail swishing slowly over the side of the chair. He watched her moodily before standing with a grunt, stalking from the room with his wolf in tow. A new long-term resident at the inn, then? Duncan certainly seemed to know him, but Isaviel had never seen him during her previous thirteen month stay.

"If ye're not paying then ye're not leaving," the barekeeper was telling Qara heatedly, "Ye'll be cleaning tables here for me, ye will. And from what I've just heard o' ye' life story, you've nowhere else to go. Sal! Get this stuck-up little girl an apron. There's a lot to tidy here."

Qara, forced to sulk in silence by his tirade, flicked her heard petulantly and balled her fists. Fairly stamping her foot, she did not argue and allowed herself to be bustled away by the industrious Sal. Once they had left for the kitchens for cloths and mops, Duncan turned to look at Isaviel, and managed to smile brightly enough for a heartfelt greeting.

"I'm glad yer back, lass, and with some new friends, too" he glanced subconsciously towards Elanee in particular, who stood watching the tavern scene, having returned to the doorway to the kitchen she looking confused at best, fearful at worst, "And now we're all…calm again, I'll see that ye have hot baths waiting for ye soon, but first we have someone to go and see."

"At this time o' night? Khelgar exclaimed, fairly sloshing his second ale, which Sal had thoughtfully left for him before taking Qara away.

"He keeps odd hours," Duncan shrugged, "And he's currently holding my shard hostage – I am assuming ye have Daeghun's? Aye? Good then, it's settled."

"Oh, great. Please tell me he's really your best, _best_ friend," Neeshka groaned.

"As a matter of fact, I _can _tell ye that. But Sand is…wilful, and has a wizard's curiosity. When ye left, he could scry no more than he ever could of that shard, but it seemed to have more magic when you were with it, Isaviel. That could explain all the Bladelings coming after ye and suchlike."

"Sand. Alright. We'll go to see him – just you and I Duncan," Isaviel nodded wearily. She had never met Duncan's wizard friend Sand, but she knew that he did not live far away, and more than anything she wanted the cool night air to soothe her troublesome mood, and hoped it might quell the searing pain in her cheek.

* * *

The Docks District of Neverwinter had not changed at all in the weeks Isaviel had been gone. At night the side alleys crawled with mangy dogs and on every corner was a beggar or a scantily clad woman – either way, they wanted coin. More shadowy figures could occasionally be seen when one knew to look for them, but generally Isaviel knew that they would pose no threat. As a good employee of the Thieves' Guild she was afforded some level of protection from the thugs Moire hired to combat the scanty patrols of the under-manned city Watch. In the ten minutes it took to walk from The Sunken Flagon to Sand's Alchemical Supplies shop she saw one blue cloak for nine of Moire's men.

Off in the distance could be heard raucous, drunken laughter of sailors by the quays, or the sounds of a brawl or three. This was a place of many taverns, too, and lights glowed from numerous establishments still busy and full of loud, inebriated customers. The smell of all types of fish, of salt and rotting food and refuse dumped from above into the rarely cleaned drains was all-pervading. Amidst it all every other house still had smoke rising from its chimney, mixing an aroma of dirt and ash that was cloying at best.

It was a cool night, as Isaviel had hoped, with a clear sky showing the moon, Selune and her Tears. To her relief Duncan was an understanding companion, not talking overly much, knowing she would fill him in when they reached Sand. She wondered how he knew so certainly that his friend would be at home and awake at such a late hour. Though with the ceaseless noise in this place she also wondered how one could ever have slept there. A few weeks away in the quiet marshes and she had forgotten all about the grimy, busy, lively city, apparently.

Sand's house was not large, with no windows above ground level, narrow but well-kept for a house in this district, standing a little apart at the end of a street, close to the tall walls bordering the river, across which the more 'civilised' Merchant District would have been visible. There was indeed light visible through its two broad front windows, fogged as they were, as Duncan had promised, and the door opened as the pair started up the few steps leading to that portal.

"Enter," a nasal, carefully intoned voice called from within.

Isaviel wondered how the door could possibly have swung open by itself. That is until she stepped inside and saw the great, hulking, vaguely humanoid form of a golem standing holding it open with surprising care for one with such large, mitten-like hands. It had no eyes and no mouth, metal sockets showing at the joints of its clay limbs to allow movement. It put her immediately on edge as well – that was not easy magic, and the formation of a golem required time, no small amount of skill and a _great_ amount of talent and power.

Inside she found herself to be within a long, cluttered room, part study, part alchemy shop. On the right wall and behind a counter covered in books and various tools; an empty scrying bowl, a pestle and mortar, were many shelves reaching up to the bare rafters of the ceiling, full of stuffed jars of ingredients. Powders, potions, leaves, preserved animals or various disassociated body parts of such were visible. On the other side of the room was a long workbench for creating potions and an array of locked cupboards covered in sparkling runes and completed wards. The power of the magic seemed to ring in her ears.

In the alcove shielded by the curve of the skeletal stairs leading up to a panel-walled mezzanine was another table, behind which stood several bookcases around a doorless arch leading to a small kitchen area. Upon following Duncan's approach of this area it became apparent that a preened man was putting away some books in a particularly snugly located bookcase. His back was to them, and she saw that his shoulder length black hair had been combed carefully back, revealing ears adorned with numerous glowing, doubtlessly magical gems and rings. He wore a dark grey coat stitched about the edges with silver thread, but she did not fail to notice that it was fraying at the sleeves and lowest hem. His black boots, too, were cracked and faded, his leggings almost unnoticeably moth- eaten.

"Ahem. We've come to see ye about the shard, Sand," Duncan said eventually when the man continued to file away his books.

"Ah, but of course," Sand turned, an unreadable smile on a pale, slightly lined face. His grey eyes took in Duncan's untidy form first, sniffing rather more disdainfully than Isaviel would have expected, before settling on her and briefly registering surprise, "This is Isaviel? You are…much lovelier than I had expected of any kin to Duncan, however much he tells me of your fosterage."

Duncan rolled his eyes and nudged Isaviel, as if she might need reminding after those words of what her real intentions in the place were. She winced, and unslung her pack.

"I believe you have Duncan's shard…and I have brought another. We believe there may be more to be discovered from them when they are together."

"Hmm… it is worth a try, I suppose. But I have been able to detect only the very faintest residues of magic from Duncan's shard. It hardly seems that there could be much to be found here…" Sand looked as sceptical as he sounded, but went over to a cabinet and extracted a cloth-wrapped bundle from a shelf.

Isaviel extracted Daeghun's shard as Sand placed the one which had been left in his keeping upon the small circular table at the centre of the room, inviting his new guests to sit there, closer to the fire and the brighter lighting in the room. The moment the two shards were revealed, glimmering like liquid silver side by side on the wooden surface, all three of those gathered around them saw that something was different. There was a new sheen to their surfaces, an additional glow, like a mist shifting and twisting just beneath their surfaces.

"Now that is odd," Sand admitted, eager curiosity alight in his narrow eyes as he leaned over them, peering closely, "They have certainly changed. Give them to me and let me determine what my keen arcane senses can uncover…"

"You'll not be touching them, Sand. Not _both _o' them," Duncan snapped.

"Very well," it was the wizard's turn to roll his eyes now, "But perhaps you should be a little more gracious, my ale purgative is the only things that keeps you from being interred into the Tomb of Betrayers; a traitor to barkeepers everywhere."

Sand smirked when Duncan fumed, and inclined his head to Isaviel when she could not help but splutter at his joke. Then before the half-Elf could retaliate, the wizard closed his eyes, his long-fingered hands hovering close to the surfaces of the shards and began muttering arcane phrases…

A great cracking sound, as of thunder, shook the whole house, which was momentarily filled with blinding white light as a wave of force rippled out from the shard. Both Sand and Duncan, who were seated opposite each other, were knocked back off their chairs to sprawl on the floor in perfect synchronisation. Isaviel, however, felt no such blast, though she saw it curve about her, and she was spared from the indignity, much to her bemusement.

"Well…they certainly seem to have some resentment to being scryed," Sand groaned, dragging himself up from the floor, hair now sticking up around his head at odd angles, forcing Isaviel to cover her mouth to hide her smile at the ridiculous sight.

"That is the truest thing ye've ever said to me, Sand," Duncan agreed, wincing as he too regained his place at the table, his chair now rocking dangerously. His eyes were fixed upon the gleaming objects, as blue sparks faded from their surface, the look there equal parts awe, horror, fear and amazement.

"But what can you tell me about them? I think it's fair to say that they have more magic than Duncan's shard did before, isn't it?" Isaviel demanded, now wrapping up both items in the cloth she had used for Daeghun's and housing them in her pack.

"All I can tell you is that…these objects are beyond my experience. I suggest that you seek out the scholar Aldanon – he lives in the Blacklake District, the richest area of this 'fair city'…"

"Ah. Tarmas told me as much. He is well known in his field, clearly…"

"Not necessarily," Sand admitted, shrugging, "His _field_ is not well known, after all. But Tarmas and I go back…many years. Tarmas was an understudy of his in alchemy shortly before the Battle of West Harbour, and told me much of Aldanon's eccentricities..."

"That's all very well," Duncan interrupted, "But the Blacklake was closed earlier today, Isaviel. It won't be easy getting an audience with this Aldanon."

"He speaks truly, I'm afraid," the wizard nodded, "Anyone in the Blacklake area is now trapped there. No one in or out, no messengers in or out, even for the nobles who live there. Quite cryptic…fascinating, really. A Lord Dalren was murdered just last night…the third in a string of similar attacks, and the Watch is careful with its nobles if not with the rest of the city. As I recall, a customer told me just this morning that the Cloaktower mages of this-oh -so reputable Neverwinter are said to have been involved."

"That means sorcery or necromancy," Duncan grunted, running a hand through his thinning hair, enough frustration visible on his lined face for both himself and his increasingly disgruntled niece, "Still, it's better than the Hosttower at Luskan. Might be they'll keep a few too many secrets, but they at least have some kind o' doctrine to follow." His eyes turned pointedly, a little accusingly, on Sand.

"I never would deny that," the wizard responded a little irritably, and Isaviel made a mental note to ask Duncan about his relationship with Sand – and how the latter and Tarmas were so well connected with each other and Daeghun too.

"There must be a way in though," Isaviel frowned, leaning back in her chair and looking past them both, straight into the flickering flame of the fire in the large, ornate hearth ahead, "The Watch must have control of the lockdown, even if the Cloaktower commanded it, am I right?"

"Well, yes," Duncan started, looking a little bemused even as comprehension dawned in Sand's eyes and an almost wicked grin spread across his face.

"If there were some way for you to gain influence with the Watch then you could probably acquire a permit from them to get into Blacklake. They are corrupt and lax lot – I do not think I have ever seen them doing much more than yawning at their posts while murder and theft runs rife in the cities all about," Sand nodded, "I would suggest…"

"There's always Marshal Cormick at the city Watch – he's a Harbourman, stationed with some Captain Brelaina in the central administration at the Merchant Quarter," Duncan put in, "He's been having his men put up posters for new recruits all year. With your skill, and those of your friends, it shouldn't be hard for the lot of ye' to get to speak to Aldanon with a bit o'…" he paused, seeing Isaviel's disgusted expression.

"Or you could seek an audience with the Thieves' Guild, if the thought of dealing with an ill-equipped bunch of corrupt scoundrels does not appeal," Sand suggested, not even bothering to emphasise the irony of his words, "And there is a third option…" he seemed to deliberately avoid continuing, throwing a wink Isaviel's way when Duncan was not looking. What did he have in mind?

"Daeghun had Tarmas tell us in absolute terms that you were to go to his old friend Cormick," Duncan blurted, and Isaviel's head snapped around to send a vicious glare his way.

"What makes you think I'd ever do just what he tells me?" she demanded furiously, "Tell me!" she demanded when she saw her uncle's look turn guilty.

"I'm sorry lass, I understand yer pain…" Duncan nodded patting her shoulder awkwardly, "But I can't go against Daeghun, he's yer father, foster or no, and…"

"_What_?" Isaviel growled.

"And Marshal Cormick is a friend of Daeghun's," Sand finished, "He witnessed our conversation with Tarmas. I'm afraid you are already expected and at least on some level you have no choice." There it was again, that suggestion of something more to his schemes.

"Come now lass, let's get back. Ye'll have the night to think it over," Duncan suggested, pointedly standing, "Remember it's just a way of getting to yer answers. Don't need to be anything more n' that."

"Fine," Isaviel frowned, glancing at Sand and still not standing, "But I would like to stay a while yet, Uncle. There are supplies that I and my friends sorely need."

"Wha- Now? Ye've only just got back. Not planning on getting into more fights just yet, are ye?" Duncan asked.

"No," Isaviel laughed bitterly, "But trouble has been following me all the way here from Meredelain. I want to know we will have the supplies to heal us if another surprise attack comes from the Bladelings."

"Alright. Have it your way," Duncan agreed, starting to move towards the door, pausing there while the golem opened it, clearly used to the shop's set up to an extent that he was leant an uncharacteristic acceptance of the magics therein, "I will see ye back at the tavern. And there'll be a hot back waiting for ye."

"It is almost like he deliberately did not understand," Sand smiled when the half Elf had left.

"I believe so," Isaviel nodded with a smile, "But I would rather skip the pleasantries. These shards have attracted Bladelings and Githyanki when separate. A group large enough to leave most of West Harbour in ruins went after Daeghun's. They have far greater power together, as we have seen, and they keep calling me 'kalach-cha'. I need answers, before these attackers of mine get lucky and you learn of my death," she leaned forward intently, her elbows on the smooth, rune-bordered table top, "If you know of a…better way for me to get into the Blacklake...if there is anything more that you can tell me now that Duncan is gone, I would be most grateful."

"Ah," Sand looked thoughtful now, "_Kalach-cha_. I have never heard that word before, but it must be a Gith word, a title if you have understood their usage correctly. Perhaps they have mistaken you for someone? Or perhaps you _are_ that someone. Do not think that I have failed to notice how these shards individually display greater power when you touch them. Or that you were not affected by the blast earlier when both Duncan and I were..."

"Alright. I thought as much," Isaviel nodded, "And your third suggestion?"

"There is some serious trouble afoot at Old Owl Well. A band of Orcs has come closer to that outpost than ever before, and they seem better and equipped and more powerful than they have any right to be. What is more is that they have kidnapped a Waterdeep emissary, Issani. For a ransom, or political leverage, something dull-wittedly concocted. Regardless, the Neverwinter army would be a better place to acquire trust. Help them with Old Owl Well's troubles and they will reward you – the Watch need never know that you are selling all their secrets to Moire, because you will be beyond their ranks and into the Blacklake far too quickly. Ask Marshal Cormick about it and he will not be able to refuse you."

"A better plan, it's true," Isaviel's smile was growing now too, and she did not bother to even question the wizard's assumption of her Thieves' Guild connections, "Although you are suggesting I walk the line of double agent here. As well as day-saving hero."

"Of course," Sand shrugged, "I have already heard of your exploits at West Harbour, and you said yourself that you have fought Gith and Bladelings alike. I think you have it in you. You are going to need to if this is to succeed."

* * *

"I'd rather dunk my head in scalding water than work with those hounds," Isaviel sighed, staring up at the cobwebbed rafters of the long washroom, blistered feet propped up at the other end of the deep, circular wooden tub in which she floated.

From the other end of the room Neeshka mumbled an otherwise contented affirmative. Still, at that moment upholding the law – or at least pretending to – seemed a small price to pay for cleanliness. Isaviel envied her friend's choice to stay in Neverwinter while she had left for home. Revelling in the generous depth of the water, Isaviel allowed her slight, snowy form to drift up from the backrest, closing her eyes in relief as several of her pains ebbed away. Only the stinging of the blisters on her slightly burned cheek, from one of Qara's bouts of flame, along with the returned dull ache of the scar on her chest remained. At the thought of the latter her eyes flew open again and she traced the line with one delicate finger with its slightly pointed bluish nail. The scar ran diagonally from the centre of her chest to the base of the ribs on her right side, and its aching had returned following Sand's attempt at scrying. Almost as if the action had awakened it somehow.

"Maybe getting into the Watch isn't so bad after all – especially if we're not there for long, and if we're keeping with Moire," Neeshka said suddenly, rolling over in her tub and resting her chin on the edge to grin at Isaviel, her tail curling up into the air, sprinkling water droplets as it swayed slightly, "It could also be pretty useful, learning how they work, the Watch I mean. For when this is all over."

Surprised by those words, and startled by her own lack of optimism, Isaviel shifted slightly, settling back into her bath and looking towards her Tiefling friend. She regarded Neeshka quizzically, careful to keep her waist-length cascade of midnight blue hair in line with the heat of the fire behind her as it hung over the edge of the tub to brush against the floor, dripping onto the furs around her basin.

"So you intend to stay and help? You don't need to get caught up in all this mess about the Astral Plane and shards and stupid anti-Orc patrols."

"Hey! Of course I'll help. You're actually nice to me and you _help _me. And besides, it's so much more fun to double cross the Watch than avoid them!"

"Alright," Isaviel grinned, "Exactly what mischief can we make while we're 'in' the Watch?"


	6. Unexpected Enemies, Unexpected Allies

"I'm afraid Daeghun's warned me about you," Marshal Cormick said gruffly as he finished fastening the Watch badge to the rim of Isaviel's cloak, "But I am willing to be convinced out of the things he told me. And you're a Harbourman, so I know you're tough…" he paused, levelling a relentless stare into her eyes, "But that also means I'll take no excuses. A failed job is a job badly done, nothing else."

Isaviel muffled a laugh when his eyes went to those arrayed behind her; Neeshka, Elanee and Khelgar. All of them looked utterly out of place with their worn leathers or tatty robes in the brightly lit, well-furnished headquarters of the Watch. A thin, well-dressed servant was pottering about the room, watering plants, and the sound of Captain Brelaina's shrill voice could be heard coming from outside, where she stood shouting out commands for the daily drilling of recruits in the vast yard.

"Actually, we've been thinking," Isaviel began, trying to hold back a glare when Cormick instantly looked at her with suspicion, leaning back against the broad oak table behind him, chainmail and leather protesting loudly, "We aren't exactly the subtlest of groups, if you take my meaning. As I am sure you have realised…we would not be the most ideal of groups for undercover work or infiltration, which…Duncan…told me you'd be most in need of."

"That's true enough," Cormick huffed, his eyes now lingering mistrustfully on Neeshka. A man of cold stares, evidently – an ageing man beginning to look a little too weighed down by all that armour. No wonder Moire had such an easy time of it, Isaviel realised.

"I thought we might be able to help the city in another way. I read one of the flyers on the wall at the gates here, and I thought maybe we could help out with the army at Old Owl Well, instead?"

"Hmph," Cormick frowned, "That might make more sense. The job they're advertising is for a couple of people plucky enough to impersonate replacement Waterdeep emissaries long enough to get captured and infiltrate the Orc camp. It'd be a one-shot thing, and you'd not have to keep up any…tricky pretences that the Watch might have needed. If it's a permit into Blacklake that you're after, succeeding at saving the 'other' captured Waterdeep emissary, Issani, might just do the trick. The city would be in your debt for saving its reputation –and for averting the growing Orcish threat. Those monsters have been getting too close to occupied lands for our liking."

"Good, so that's settled then," Isaviel grinned widely, but Cormick called for her to wait.

"You'll still need that badge to report in at the garrison at Old Owl Well, so don't be so quick to scorn it. And here, you'll need this list to get all the things appropriate for your cover."

"Right," Isaviel winced, looking down the list and then back up to look at Cormick with sceptical eyes, "The clothes listed for 'ladies' do not seem well suited for fighting."

"Well. You're a Harbourman, " Cormick shrugged, "You learned to _swim_ in your clothes, didn't you?"

* * *

"I liked him. He looked like he'd be good in a brawl," Khelgar was saying of Cormick once they reached the Dolphin Bridge, crossing back over the Neverwinter River to the Docks from the bustling, fruit-and-spices scented Merchant District. Ah, the smell of mouldering fish.

"Yeah. Before he started to _rot_ at least," Neeshka put in with a snort, pulling her cloak more closely around her shoulders as they passed a merchant cart freshly loaded from boats at the quays – even in this bright sun, for she was more nervous than ever about belying her demonic heritage. Her tail particularly seemed an issue for her, as if she was expecting anyone and everyone to confront her. Isaviel felt there was more to this than just caution.

"He seemed an honest man to me," Elanee argued, "It is men such as that which a city beset with unlawfulness needs."

Isaviel ignored the rest of their musings, lagging a little behind, staring absentmindedly to the left, to the east, where the great mountains bordering that side of the city towered up to the clouds, bluish at that distance, but still visibly snow-capped. If it were not for the heat generated within them, warming the river waters which could then be channelled about the city, Neverwinter would be as icy as the rest of the Frozen North. Meanwhile, the high walls of the two adjacent districts limited one's view of these most lived-in areas of Neverwinter, allowing one only to observe a general mass of red-tiled roofs and the odd spire here and there.

Behind her she knew she could have seen the hill upon which rose the opulent Blacklake District so clearly, topped by the grand Cloaktower of mages and the sprawling Castle Never. Coloured marbles, blue granite paving slabs…all could be seen to glint in the sun distantly, unreachably. She had been there once, to seek the Order of the Even-Handed at the Temple of Tyr. It was a vast building, bordering the Tomb of Betrayers rather pointedly. The reigning Lord Nasher was a devout man and liked to make his opinions on faith clear.

Blacklake at least was an immaculately clean, hopelessly richly adorned place. No struggling shops of street ware sellers could be found there, only the 'best' shops, only the 'best' families, the noblest, the most longstanding. She felt almost afraid of returning – how very different from West Harbour it had been when last she went. Getting back out into the wilderness to combat the Orc lair in the Crags near Old Owl Well would be a welcome relief, she found. This came as something of a surprise – she had always seen Neverwinter as a refuge before her return to West Harbour, but now nowhere felt safe. She had been sleeping poorly, and when she did sleep all she saw were the burning houses of her home town, Amie dead on the ground, and all she heard were the screams of the dying, the burning…

She and Neeshka parted with Khelgar and Elanee at the entrance to the Docks. They refrained from explaining why, but Elanee's searching look suggested she knew they were up to no good. Still, Khelgar was too eager to return to the tavern, to hunt out more fights than consider their motives. Elanee could find solace from her suspicions in the communal herb gardens just beyond the walls, a short walk from the back door of Duncan's establishment.

"I thought they would never go away," Neeshka complained from within her conspicuously raised hood as they ducked down a side street to take the Back Alley path to Moire's abode.

Isaviel did not respond, watching her friend's strange, nervous behaviour closely. Yes, there was something wrong. Neeshka did not normally seek to hide her entire visage, regardless of her rather conspicuous heritage, but today was different.

"You know you're being more obvious by hiding yourself, don't you Neeshka?" Isaviel asked in exasperation when her friend flinched away from a passer-by for the third time in a row.

"It's nothing," Neeshka sighed, half-heartedly pulling back her dark hood so that it still clung forward over the curve of her horns, but at least pushing the cloth back over her shoulders. Her face, now that it was clearly visible, looked pale and drawn, and her eyes would not stay still, searching every shadow and alley they passed, the face of every one of the people, whether raggedly clad or otherwise, who passed them.

"No, it's not," Isaviel corrected, putting a hand on the Tiefling's shoulder and stopping her at the mouth of the dark, narrow path to Moire's hideout. The one where they had first fought Bladelings, "If it's bad enough to make you this nervous then it's _something_. And I need to know – I can't have another set of pursuers that I know nothing of along with those Gith."

After a long pause, Neeshka nodded feebly.

"Once we're back from Old Owl Well, I will tell you – I promise…"

"You two! Moire has been expecting you," a deep voice rumbled from close at hand, and not for the first time Isaviel turned to look up at the hulking form of Caleb to wonder how it was that he always managed to sneak up on people so successfully. Scarred, freshly bruised from some recent ruffian's assignment, and far heavier and more muscular than the average employee of Moire's, he was the odd one out in the Guild of Thieves.

"No need to come out to meet us, Caleb, we've been intending to see her, too," Isaviel pointed out, pretending to smile sweetly.

There was something even more aggressive in his eyes than usual. When her scar started to ache, she took it as a signal. She was ready for his swing when it came and dodged accordingly, simultaneously unsheathing the dagger in her boot and driving it into his stomach before his lumbering frame could compensate its balance. Holding it there, she pushed and twisted until he groaned from the pain, staggering back against the wall to collapse into the dirt and the darkness.

"Did Moire send you to kill me? Or was it someone else?" Isaviel hissed, wrenching her dagger free to step out of the pooling blood, "Tell me truly and I will send for the Watch to find you a healer."

"She…sent me to…kill you," Caleb gasped, and Isaviel's look darkened.

"How many guards?"

"None. She consults with the…Dark Wizard alone."

"What dark wizard?" Neeshka demanded, but Isaviel had heard enough, cutting Caleb's throat with a kukri and turning away, heading straight for the door of Moire's hideout, "Hey! I thought you said you'd call for the Watch?"

"I was lying, Neeshka. He tried to kill me and I never liked him. And anyone who refers to someone only as 'the dark wizard' knows nothing else of them," when Isaviel turned her eyes were blazing with rage, "Now. I believe we should find out why Moire called for that to happen in the first place, don't you?"

* * *

"The Githyanki are searching for her because they know she possesses some of the silver shards. It may have been easier to let them kill her earlier, when she had only one of the pieces, but now with two…how long could it be before she wished for more? Before she wondered what they make. Moire, you have long been a followed of our…Way. Do this thing for all of us, recover these shards and bring them to me yourself," the Dark Wizard told the slender woman before him. His image was blurred and shimmering within a bubble of magical energy; a projection from afar.

"Of course, Garius. I have already sent out my best man to dispatch her," Moire nodded, turning away with a swish of expensive coloured silks to pour wine into a glass from a gilded jug, as opulent as anything ever was in the Docks District.

The whole room stank of wealth, gaudy in a way that had long ago grown unfashionable in the Blacklake. A silver chandelier hung directly above the wizard's image, carved with panthers and bears with eyes inlaid with semi-precious stones. A few ancient tapestries, pilfered from houses fallen in the great Plague those ten years past hung on the walls, depicting ancient Netheril and its epic fall. Moire had always seen it as fittingly ironic. The carpets were woven with fine Damaran furs, all of them with corners stitched with generous triangles of gold threads. Amassed spell tomes, to prove conquests over wizards and inspire respect and fear in her employees, were arrayed in five ornate bookshelves across the room on a raised platform, within which burned a marble-framed fire.

"I will be waiting at the Fifth Tower in five days' time, I promise to you my lord," the ageing Thieves' Guild mistress promised, raising her newly filled glass towards the image of the Dark Wizard with a slight smile on her thin lips, only slightly emphasising the subtle lines around her eyes.

"I hope that you do," the man's dark-clad form shifted, giving brief clarity to a pallid, ageing face and fittingly icy eyes, a strange bronze chain hanging around his shoulders, displaying a large black gem, "Or else you will meet your death as befits a traitor. Unless that justice has already been performed you for your…negligence." His smile was thin as he suddenly broke off the connection.

Moire closed her eyes in relief, taking a long drink from her glass and enjoying the wine. Garius always made her uneasy, as much as she was avowed to do his bidding. When she opened her eyes again to see that all too familiar, deceptively delicate form before her, golden eyes blazing seemingly with a light of their own, she gasped and dropped her glass to shatter on the floor at her feet. As the red wine pooled on the floorboards at her feet, soaking through her cloth slippers, Moire tried to subtly reach behind her for a knife, but Isaviel got there first. The older woman hissed as the Elf exerted far greater strength than one might have expected and held her arm there.

"Who is it that you work for?" the Moon Elf demanded, "What kind of cult need fear what the Githyanki…"

Moire cut her adversary's next word off when she twisted away, with disregard to her own pain, grasping the metal jug full of wine and seeking to smash it over Isaviel's wretched blue locks…only to have her arm caught in a determined grasp. Looking about, she saw Neeshka's pink eyes searching her own, not quite so hateful as the Elf's…just confused, maybe a little regretful.

"Black Garius would welcome you into his Way, Neeshka," Moire said desperately, "A power as great as that of your heritage…you could learn it. You are the best thief I have ever known, the Shadows love you…"

"I hope you burn in the Hells, Moire," Neeshka said at last, her look grown cold with a shared glance past her former employer to Isaviel, "You betrayed us once. I won't believe your lies."

"The King of Shadows will have both of your souls!" Moire snarled, her anger rising over her fear, knowing there was nothing else left to her, "The King of Shadows will make you pay for all you have done," she told Isaviel, seeing those hateful gold eyes and the grim line of those enviously full red lips…

The Moon Elf did not deign to reply, but brought a dagger to Moire's throat. And all that was left was death, and those golden eyes.

* * *

"Watch! Watch! Someone call the Watch! Oh, thanks be to Tyr, I'm so glad you came!" Isaviel gasped as some obliging young men, wearing badges of the Watch, rushed to the two bodies lying at her feet.

"What happened here?" they demanded.

When their hands went to their swords and Isaviel heard the ringing of a blade behind her she realised she had been caught out. Before she could speak she felt an arm move around her neck, bringing a dagger against her skin. She had dressed herself in the plainest dress from Moire's house that she could find, so as to look most like a Dock's District dweller as possible. That was not the issue here – they could not suspect her of a murder, for she appeared unarmed and vulnerable, long hair falling well past her waist and not bound up as if for a fight. And Elves were relatively common in this place of Faerûn-wide commerce, so the problem was not her unlikely heritage, either.

"Is this how you treat all young women who raise an alarm in the street?" she gasped, but the two men in front of her ignored her, going to turn over the fallen body of Moire. The one behind her smelled strongly of sweat and drink and she could only hope that Neeshka was paying close attention to their rapidly failing ploy.

"What happened here?" one of the men asked her eventually, turning around to sneer more effectively in her direction, "And don't tell me any sob story about how those two were robbed, or 'she attacked him in an argument and when he killed her from rage he ended his own life'. It's all lies – I know that's Moire."

"Fine," Isaviel sighed, and pulled down the side of her cloak of her shoulder, so as to best display her Watch badge, "I was just doing my duty for Captain Brelaina. Now unhand me before I report you to Marshall Cormick."

"Ha! As if we'd let you get that far. You've gone and murdered our best employer…neither my wife nor my mistress will be mighty pleased to hear I can't feed 'em," the Watchman laughed bitterly, "You would have soon learned what pittance we're paid, hound. Really, I'll be doing you a favour."

"Agreed. Cut her throat and be done with it. We'll say all three attacked us and we had no choice," the other man nodded, only for his eyes to go wide as he looked past the hulking form holding Isaviel. A _wolf_ leapt out of the dark alley, sparing no time in knocking him to the ground screaming, and tearing out his throat.

The man behind Isaviel tightened his grip, the sharp edge digging into her skin and drawing blood. Marshal Cormick's words came back to her unexpectedly: _you learned to swim in those clothes, didn't you?_ As the more vocal Watch member still living drew his sword and rounded on the wolf, which was now lapping up the blood pooling around its twitching victim, Isaviel tried to fight back. Struggling against the unseen man's grip she bit down on his restraining arm with as much force as she could, and felt blood fill her mouth. Retching at the taste she spat it out, hearing him roar with pain, his grip loosening significantly – enough for her to kick back at his shin and bend to unsheathe a dagger from her boot…only to have her hair grasped and pulled back hard, sending her reeling back. Her cry was muffled by the blood-covered hand that came up to cover her mouth, the other bracing against her shoulder. _He is going to snap my neck,_ she realised.

The other Watch member had never reached the wolf, which seemed unconcerned by the whole affair, for Neeshka had descended upon him from the low, half-tiled half-thatched roof behind him. Holding two throwing daggers into his shoulders, she wrapped her legs around his waist from behind, _so _pleased with those boots she had found in Moire's hideout. The ones with serrated 'spurs' clearly intended more for combat than riding. Her hold on him achieved in this bloody fashion, she had brought her tail up to wrap around his throat and a swift twist and wrench of the supernaturally strong, scaled appendage had ended his life before he could effectively claw at her grasp on him.

Isaviel took all of this in, clawing at the thick, bleeding arm of the one who held her to no avail. Distantly she heard a low twanging sound, and a whistle of air. She felt the man holding her tense, felt his grip dig into her shoulder and still she fought, kicking and scraping, biting…and then he let out a strange gurgling, choking sound. His grip on her loosened, and she felt something cold and sharp, like the tip of a dagger, scrape against her shoulder blade as she dodged out of the way to let him fall into the bloody mess the wolf had made of the first man.

"Now that's a pretty sight," a low, rough voice drawled, and Isaviel looked up to see the man Duncan had called Bishop lowering his bow, a cruelly satisfied grin on his lips.

"_You _shot him?" Isaviel asked in bemusement.

"Yes. And now you _owe _me," he growled, but he was still grinning as he approached, Neeshka scrambling to Isaviel's side as he wrenched his arrow free from the fallen brute's back, "I came upon your friend there fighting some of those Bladelings. I didn't much like the idea of them creeping into The Sunken Flagon while I slept, so I thought it would be in _my best interests_ to help."

"And just now?" the Moon Elf asked, wincing as she brought a hand up to her neck.

"Why not? I saw how they behaved, and they had it coming to them."

"That's all fine," Neeshka interrupted, her voice high and frenetic, "But what are we going to do about the bodies?"

"Well, they're nowhere near Moire's hideout," Isaviel pointed out, "And it's dark – no one could have got a look at us clearly."

"Leave them to rot then," Bishop shrugged, "It sounds like you had the sense to dump your earlier kills far from their lair – and to wait until night to do it."

"Glad you approve," Isaviel sneered sarcastically, and his eyes burned in her direction.

"Alright. I'm all for leaving them…but what about the Bladeling we had to kill?" Neeshka asked, and looked in puzzlement as Isaviel's smile grew in the dim light of the night-time city.

"How far are they?"

"Just down there, at the end of the passage…"

"Let's drag them closer. I've a pretty story to weave to Cormick," Isaviel smirked eventually, and Bishop laughed.

"Clever girl."

* * *

A few hours later Isaviel, Neeshka and Bishop sat at the end of one of Moire's two long tables which stood at each far side of her main audience room. The wine she had spilled had stained the corner of one carpet, but her blood had been spilled more sparingly. Now they were making diligent use of the rest of her stores of that wine, while Bishop's wolf Karnwyr slept apparently soundly curled up by the fire. No pet had ever looked less adorable, Isaviel surmised. The beast still had blood around its mouth.

"I still can't believe she named me in her will," Neeshka was saying, talking as slowly as she could and still slurring her words, wafting a roll of parchment across the table as she stumbled over to regain her place at the head, "I can't believe she made a will at all."

"Moire has an empire of thieves and contacts all along the Sword Coast. Whatever that cult was that she had a part in, whatever ties they think they have to that dead King of Shadows…she had that business to think of too. And you heard her say it yourself – you're the best she ever saw. The crazy bitch had some sense in her after all," Isaviel grinned, raising her glass to her friend and taking a sip. She for one was having no trouble keeping a straight head.

"Sounds like she expected to die, to me," Bishop pointed out more gravely.

He stood as Neeshka sat, to stalk around the room still clutching a wine bottle and taking a long swig as he went. Through his cold demeanour he was a handsome man, Isaviel could not deny it. His hair was dark, just as were his eyes, his skin tanned, with a thin scar across one cheekbone. Defined muscle could be seen through his thin tunic now that he had discarded his leather jerkin over the back of his chair, as could the thick lines of what looked like burn scars on one shoulder. He paused at the far end of the table, catching her looking, and tossed her a pear which waited in a bowl there. She caught it by reflex a hand's breadth from her shoulder and bit into it, enjoying staring him down. He may have fought her in the tavern when she raged at Qara, but he had helped them with Bladelings and the Watch, and he was fair to look upon.

"I for one am glad we came away from this with more than we started. We have a well-defended hideout all of our own now that Moire is gone – and you're all welcome to stay with me. This place is big enough for everyone," Neeshka was saying , "And we'll be rich. Isaviel…I want you to be my partner. I might be the best thief, but you're…you're thebest…"

The Tiefling swayed a little on her chair and seemed to lose her train of thought. She had come up with her plans for the hideout more coherently when sober, after Isaviel had returned from The Sunken Flagon with the news that Cormick would be informed forthwith by the obliging Sand and Duncan. Elanee had rushed to apply ointment to the cut on her neck, and everyone seemed to have found it utterly plausible that Bladelings sent to look for Isaviel might have murdered two people in the street while attempting it.

"What _are_ you the best at, Elf?" Bishop asked with a slow smile, continuing his walk across the room, his strides those of one who is confident in their control of a situation…and the slight swagger of one who knows it, "The mistress of pretty smiles?" he only laughed when she glared.

While Bishop headed through the side door to get more wine, Isaviel headed in the opposite direction, to the doorway which Neeshka had managed to break into earlier. It had been trapped and warded, but the Tiefling had skills at disarming both, and they had found it led to the newly dead Moire's extensive living quarters. It would appear that she kept no full-time servants, employing them to clean all but her own private rooms and to cook in a kitchen at the other end of the building, which was a converted block of houses. Not all of the rooms could be reached without crossing a back alley but the whole place operated within one great barrier of protection for which only certain members of the Guild knew the password. There were rooms in each part of the block which were free of this, set up to look like viable aspects of the sprawling property of some rich merchant who liked to keep up a home close to the quays from which he acquired revenue. It was all very well thought out, very well protected.

Moire's rooms were lavishly decorated and there was a vault tucked away behind a heavy bookcase which it had taken both Neeshka and Isaviel to budge. The Tiefling had broken into that as well, revealing the Will and chests of gold or jewellery and gems, all ill-begotten, along with a small table at the centre of all of this. Upon its warded surface lay three thick books, each keeping logs; one of commerce with the Shadow Thieves of Amn, one of information on the Neverwinter Guild itself and one of contacts and activities all the way down to Athkatla. But for all of their searching in the documents they had found there and elsewhere, there was nothing to say that they now had the power to get into the Blacklake. The Cloaktower of the Arcane had put a lockdown on all communications, and the mages there had far more power than any Watch organisation. It would still be necessary to act for the army to infiltrate the Orc camp and gain standing to get to Aldanon.

Isaviel picked her way, barefooted, across the soft carpets of Moire's bedroom, searching cupboards, wardrobes, drawers of clothes, armour, weapons…until she came to what she sought. There was a whole side room, separated from the sleeping chamber by a thin red curtain, dedicated to disguise. Mostly this consisted of rags or apparently tattered dresses, wizard or priest robes, a few children's toys, a walking stick, even a mask. That which caught the Moon Elf's eye was a white embroidered shirt and rich blue trousers, along with a simple cloth hat. Yes. This would be very useful.

"There you are," Bishop's voice startled her, and she spun around to see him approaching, holding out a scrap of parchment to her, "You might find this of some interest."

" 'We have successfully played our part. The Priest has been installed with Logram Eyegouger. See that you contact G and learn your part in all of this. L,' " Isaviel paused a moment, then nodded to herself, "'G' would be Garius, that 'Dark Wizard' I saw her talking to. The 'Priest' must be one of the people associated with that cult they seemed to both be a part of. But 'L'? I have no idea."

"The Eyegouger Clan is the greatest Orc clan in the area. All the others who live near them in the Sword Mountains pay fealty to them. You would do well to stay out of their way," Bishop said firmly.

"I can't. I have to infiltrate their lair to find out…" she paused, and Bishop seemed unconcerned by her lack of trust in him.

"So that is why you appear to be considering dressing in men's clothing," Bishop sneered, "You will never pass for a man, you know."

"Of course I know," Isaviel passed him by, arching an eyebrow at him, "And I will take that as a compliment," he just shrugged, so she continued, "But swathed in all the furs one needs for the cold winds of those mountains, the clothes will matter more than the face…or the form."

She did not wait for his response but headed back to the room in which they had left Neeshka, only to see that the Tiefling had fallen asleep at the table. Karnwyr remained dormant also. Sighing, the Moon Elf took another seat, one further from the snoring half-demon and the wolf, and took the wine bottle from Bishop as he offered it wordlessly to her before sitting opposite, kicking booted feet up onto the table and reclining against his chair, watching her closely.

"Tell me about West Harbour, Elf. I'm thinking I might like to join the Orc-killing party. Might be that I'm sick of the sight of your dear old uncle's tavern, and target practice is more the thing for me."

"Only if you tell me how you know my uncle," Isaviel countered, "And why you're in this city now, when you've not been for the last year."

"Now that's not a fair trade," Bishops's eyes had grown stormy again, "I'm not offering a _trade_. I'm offering my bow to your Orc-killing party, not my life."


	7. Of Paladins and Rangers

Sir Callum, once of Citadel Adbar, was used to the cold; he was built for it and he had been born in it. Yet even for him, the wind was bitter as it came roaring down the Long Road from the north. Snow was rare at this time of year, but it had visibly settled up on the high hills that separated Old Owl Well from Red Larch, perhaps brought by the darkly cloudy sky. This weather was doing nothing for his men's morale, and that did nothing for his mood in turn. Two days ago they had last fought the Eyegouger Orcs, and two days ago he had given up trying to scuff off the blood dried on his boots. There would be time enough for better hygiene once the Orcs were finally defeated.

Their camp was extensive, lodged in the foothills of the westerly-headed mountain range, and when Callum stepped out of his tent every morning he could see Old Owl Well to the south below him, defiantly bustling with life. It was a small town of sturdy stone houses, a place where most inhabitants were either traders in furs, meat or both and everyone was a livestock herder if they were not a craftsman. The sturdy Dwarven commander of these Neverwinter Greycloaks liked the tenacity of that place, and he wished to see it restored to peace. By having his men garrisoned just east of the town, closer to where they believed the Eyegougers' lair to be located, they had managed to stave off much of the danger. But not all. People were still being killed, houses still being raided. And every time, all of the dead bodies – and they were normally dead or dying – were dragged away. Sir Callum, long in the service of the Nine of Neverwinter and used to the vicious Orc tribes near that northerly Dwarvish settlement, still flinched at the thought of it.

Callum was stood wrapped in his two fur-lined grey cloaks, watching the sprawl of Old Owl Well and the mountains beyond, when a scout came rushing to his side.

"What is it?" he asked tersely, looking up at the young man whose salute tended more towards a nervous flinch when caught by the Dwarf's steely gaze.

"Sir. The group Captain Brelaina of the watch promised us has arrived."

"Good. About time we acted to recover Issani. I am sick to death of trying to read those half-legible scrawls the Orcs think to be ransom notes."

Looking past the scout, who stepped aside hastily, Callum watched a group of travellers moving up the hill towards him, and was not heartened by what he saw. A bald, heavily armoured dwarf with an axe strapped to his back, red-cheeked in the wind and too twitchy for an army recruit, walked with as much purpose as he could muster. He seemed particularly uncomfortable out of the four, his eyes darted all about as if expecting one of the Greycloaks to jeer him or even attack. Callum had seen his type before – his stance and build, combined with that dark hair, hinted at a brawler of Ironfist origins. As far from this Dwarf's side as she could get approached a thin young woman, dressed in layers of brown spun robes, who was wrapping herself with increasing fervour in the two fur cloaks about her shoulders. Her knotted brown hair was woven with branches to hold it back from her narrow, freckled face and she was evidently very young. He saw no evidence that she was armed, and it gave him pause.

Of the group of four, it was the two taking up the rear that started to change Callum's mind. They looked wary, and well-armed. The man had a cruel look that Callum did not trust, and a few curved scars on his jaw and neck, dressed in a thick tunic of studded leather over another tunic of fur-lined cloth, his bracers scratched and faded from use, his boots showing similar wear. With a longbow on his back and two quivers of arrows slung between his shoulder blades, several daggers could be seen about his person; one strapped to his left forearm, a hilt showing against each boot, while a longsword was sheathed on his right hip. _Left-handed_, Callum noted, _a besieger, not a defender_. He seemed at ease with the cold, not shivering like the girl in front of him, not intimidated of the camp or the wild lands like the Dwarf, and the make and style of his furs betrayed it all to Callum. _Those hooded cloaks are made only north of Neverwinter._ That meant Luskan, Mirabar, Adbar or Icewind Dale. The real Frozen North.

By the man, Callum observed the last of the group, who were now beginning to approach him with more purpose, halfway up the hill to his tent. She was evidently of Elvish descent, along with a delicate, feminine figure and large golden eyes, the irises of which were a little too large and far too strangely coloured for a human. The stray strands of hair that had escaped her hood were a deep blue, and her skin had a tinge of that colour as well. A Moon Elf, then. Tall for one of her kin she would stand easily half a foot over Callum and was dressed in a tunic of furs and supple leather, with thick gloves and a long, faded black cloak embroidered with silver. He wondered if she knew what those sigils meant, for Callum had seen them before. Her boots were sturdy and broad, laced up the sides, soft in the right places for agile movement and broad for marshy travel. A Moon Elf who was also a Harbourman, sporting a cloak of one very famous ancient city? Either way, she was armed as well as the man beside her, with a pair of kukris on her hips and daggers at her boots and outer thighs, a shortbow with a small quiver slung over her back. Not her weapon of choice, then, but Callum was yet to meet a warlike Elf with no proficiency with the bow. More than all of her companions she seemed watchful but at ease. Hopefully this did not equate to recklessness.

"This group looks more like mercenaries out for coin or adventurers in search of glory than Watch recruits," Callum grunted to the scout inching away from his side, "A brawler, a _druid_ and a pair who look more like a ranger and a dueller than anything else…has Brelaina lost her mind at last?"

"They have the appropriate documents, Sir Callum. And two wear badges of the Watch." Ah, the Dwarf and the Elf, he could see the eye symbol glinting a steely grey on their left shoulders.

"Fine. Dismissed, boy. I'll deal with these alone."

"As you wish, sir."

"Who is your leader?" Callum called in his best booming voice, satisfied when several of the men in the camp automatically leapt to attention. He was going to have them as well-trained Greycloaks in no time. This was the campaign they had needed to make them into seasoned soldiers fit for duty, he surmised.

"I am," the Moon Elf replied, speeding her approach and reaching the waiting Dwarven Greycloak leader a moment later, "And we are here…"

"Under Brelaina's orders, I know. To recover the captured Waterdeep emissary, Issani, yes – I know," the Greycloak told her coolly, and watched her eyes narrow at his tone. No, she was no soldier, that was certain.

"And who're you?" the Dwarf at her side put in, his voice gruff, a little rougher than came naturally.

"I am Callum, one of Lord Nasher's Nine. I command these soldiers you see around you – none other than a contingent of the Greycloaks of Neverwinter, the best of the city's fighting force. I should warn you now that we are hard pressed by the Orcs who live in those mountains ahead as part of the Eyegouger Clan. We _will _defeat them, but we need the group who are looking for the emissary to take out Logram, the clan's leader, as well. Without him the Orcs will have no purpose. They will scatter as surely as did the armies of King Obould at the Spine of the World."

"Sounds like a suicide mission to me," the man with the bow growled, of all the group the one who stayed the furthest back, "And how do you even know the emissary you are looking for is still alive?"

"I know as surely as I know those Orcs are not working alone. They are better armoured and better organised than ever I've known them to be," Callum explained, unperturbed, "And their backers will have the sense to keep an emissary alive. Born into the higher echelons of Waterdhavian society, the emissaries we've had before from Waterdeep would always get a good ransom. We were not expecting to have to replace our last one, but he was old and wished to die in retirement, and no man should be begrudged that after a life of long, faithful service. But it is not just Issani we need to save, for the Orc attacks have cut off trade between Yartar and Triboar. That hits Neverwinter hard as well, though you must have learned on your way here that the Long Road is not so easy to reach from Neverwinter as the High Road."

"Aye," the Dwarf grunted, evidently warming to Callum's stern manner, "And we heard rough talk o' the Orcs in the taverns and even the streets o' Triboar."

"And that 'rough talk' turned into open curses for the Orcs as we passed through Old Owl Well," the young woman who must have been a druid or something close, put in. Her voice was soft, lulling almost.

The man and the Elf shared a dark look at their companions' words, and it was the latter who finally spoke.

"Saving an emissary is one thing. Getting to Logram Eyegouger and killing him too…and getting out alive is a different matter," she pointed out, subconsciously shifting her pack on her shoulders – Callum noticed she was the only one who had kept their belongings so close, "And you do intend us to come out of this alive, don't you? Neither Captain Brelaina nor her Marshal ever made it clear that we would be seeking to destroy the clan as well."

"The plan has changed, as have your orders. Follow me," Callum commanded, turning back towards his tent and gesturing at the camp's cook, who stood under an awning stirring broth as he did so.

* * *

It was a relief to finally step out of the cold winds when the Greycloak Leader did eventually invite them into his – still frosty – tent. It was a simple construction, broad and square and of grey canvas, with a large central table covered with plans and a small locked chest by a rudimentary bed roll. Given that the Greycloaks were supposed to be the most noble of Lord Nasher's soldiers, second only to the Neverwinter Nine –of which Callum had proclaimed he was also a part – the large, winter-ready Dwarf afforded himself few luxuries. His stern, well-spoken tone had put Isaviel on edge at first, but he was clearly a seasoned warrior, with notches on his armour and his battelaxe, a jagged scar visible on his neck where his plaited beard and thick ponytail of long blonde hair parted.

"Alright," Bishop sighed, positioning himself at the doorway as Callum made his way across the tent to the other side of the table, pulling off thick gloves to sift through sheets of parchment until he pulled forth a stitched cloth map only two palms across, "Which variant of Orc target practice are we headed for now, then?"

"This is not just 'target practice'," Elanee gasped indignantly, "Orcs are the greatest threat to the balance of life, other than cities of course. This is a du…"

"With all respect, young woman, his sentiment is closer to that of my men," Callum pointed out by way of silencing the recurring argument. Isaviel almost laughed at that – he had succeeded where she had not, on that front.

"Must I still impersonate a new emissary?"

"Yes, that is our intent," Callum nodded, "But you will need to reach the other side of the mountains to do it. The river runs thinnest between the two highest mountains, so you will need to follow the river-side path to ford it. Once you have done this, you will need to cross through the foothills and get back to that same side, via Stone Bridge. Make your way to the other side and, Tyr willing, you will have avoided the suspicions of the Orcs long enough to join the men I have waiting there to act as your 'guards'. From there you must take the more expected route along the Long Road, as if you were to turn west and head for Neverwinter just past Triboar. If you get that far – and I doubt that you will, with the Orcs on the lookout for another replacement emissary or Waterdeep dignitary come to bring ransom – then camp for a day or so in the foothills just south of Old Owl Well. They will catch you there, I am certain."

"And what will your guards do when I am 'captured'? Allow themselves to die?"

"No. they will make it appear as if they cannot help you," Callum glared then, "And your…friends will be expected to track those Orcs into the mountains and determine where the Eyegouger lair is. At least one of them will then need to report back to me so that we can send out a force to destroy this camp once and for all, while you get the emissary out and aim to kill Logram as well. We are also hoping that your activities will alert the one the Orcs call Katalmach, a great foe of theirs and a great help to us. But he would be a greater help to us if he were acting with us, and he will almost certainly come to your aid. If this occurs, your cover will no longer be necessary. Your task will be to gain his help in finding and getting into the clan lair."

"…Right," Isaviel took the map from him and looked at it in mounting dismay, finally meeting his determined eyes, "This is insane," she hissed as the camp's cook entered, handing each of the new arrivals a bowl of warm broth, as Callum had subtly requested.

"Perhaps, but have you a better plan?"

* * *

A day later, once they had rested and had their fair share of warm food at the camp it was time to set out again for Isaviel, Elanee, Khelgar and Bishop, along with Karnwyr who had been very wary to approach so many people at first. Empathising with the wolf, the Moon Elf had found the boisterous but rigidly regular and organised atmosphere of the army camp fascinatingly disturbing. Her companions had also seemed out of place with the Greycloaks, most of whom utterly ignored them. The four stayed around their own slightly removed campfire, which they had made for themselves, and had no issue sleeping on the bed rolls they had grown accustomed to after their six day ride from Neverwinter.

Although the warm food had been a relief, if not the Greycloaks' company, Isaviel had been glad to be on the move again. However, she had not been expecting the icy temperatures to worsen once they entered the mountain pass, nor to feel so closely watched so instantly. It had taken barely an hour before Bishop and Elanee had agreed with Isaviel's summation that they would do well to climb up and travel off the narrow, walled-in road. Khelgar had been less willing, but when the others did as they had agreed he was quick to join.

Up there among the tired branches of stunted trees and the odd scraps of grass and other greenery the wind was brutal enough to burn, constantly sending cloaks to ripple and flap back. Shivering violently, Isaviel pulled her fur-lined under-cloak more tightly about herself, glad that Khelgar had insisted they each acquire such items before venturing into the mountains. His old home, that of the Ironfist Stronghold, resided in similar conditions, further south and west on the far side of the Sword Mountains, and he was used to such. Despite the cleared sky, now a radiant blue, it remained cold, and the apparent shelter of the great jagged mountains looming up on all sides, the dry, biting wind always finding a way to come howling in amongst them, tearing at skin.

Having to creep, constantly crouched, expecting attack at any moment, Isaviel sorely missed Neeshka's presence. The Tiefling had excellent hearing and could have confirmed her suspicions that whenever they stopped, the distant clank of mail did too. But the Thieves' Guild, having accepted Neeshka, would need a little more time to coordinate before the Tiefling was free to participate as fully as she had promised in Isaviel's efforts to learn more of the shards. There would be plenty of time for that when she returned, however. Isaviel had not left much time to discuss what she had heard of Moire's conversation, but it had undoubtedly piqued her interest. There were more shards…and they were evidently very important to someone. Someone who had sought to kill her, just as the Giths had.

After nearly two more hours of movement, shouts suddenly erupted close by, where the path sloped down a little, curving away to the left and beginning to widen significantly. Perhaps they had not been the prey all of this time. To determine the truth of this, Isaviel sped up her pace, hoping the others would follow, and finally got a view of the action when she reached the bend in the road, keeping close behind a large boulder to maintain her cover.

A large band of hulking porcine Orcs, surprisingly well-armed as Callum had warned, outnumbered a group of what Isaviel initially assumed to be Greycloak fighters by two to one. Yet not a single one of the humans had fallen or appeared to have sustained injury, armoured heavily in plate mail full with visors and gleaming weaponry. A tall, dark-haired warrior shone brightly at the heart of the battle, wielding a hammer from which glowed blue light.

Observing this, Isaviel felt a hand grasp her shoulder and heard Bishop's voice over to her right. Half-turning to look at him, she saw he had his bow in his other hand, and she could feel his forearm against her back. But he was not looking at her, rather towards the fighting group, and his expression was one of disgust.

"By the Nine Hells," he groaned, "Don't tell me he's a paladin."

"Hey! Those're our Orcs!" Khelgar roared, his voice thundering down the mountain pass as he tumbled in a mini avalanche and hurtled towards the fray, giving several of the nearest Orcs pause.

"So much for subtlety," Isaviel sighed as Elanee, now in the form of a bear, went bounding past already on the road, and the Moon Elf looked to Bishop fiercely.

"Let's not be outdone by them," he grinned, still holding onto her shoulder as he pulled her a little closer, very deliberately glancing at her lips before speaking again, "No one should look weak before a paladin's righteous gaze," and his tone was mocking the world when he gave her a little shove forwards, already reaching behind his back for arrows.

"Agreed," Isaviel grinned, leaving behind her cloaks and pack, unsheathing her kukris as she headed further along the raised area of stones. She could see a large number of the Orcs breaking off to swarm Khelgar, several failing to dodge Elanee's bestial form, barely having time to cry out in fear and raise their arms feebly as she barrelled into them.

Utilising her natural Elvish agility and hours of practice from youth, Isaviel never slowed as she began her nimble descent of the steep rockface, somersaulting from one large boulder. Mid-fall she aligned her landing with a carefully placed kick to one surprised Orc's neck, breaking bone, and had to twist quickly, landing among four adversaries on one palm. Long hair swept the dusty ground audibly as she span again, knocking back one Orc in a move that allowed her to right herself, bringing a kukri to bear and slitting his throat. Hearing the tell-tale whistle of one of Bishop's incoming arrows behind her, Isaviel arched out of the way and the projectile took another Orc in the gut, the force of the longbow shot sending it tumbling back. _He did not warn me – that could just as easily have killed me_, Isaviel realised, and decided to take it up with him later. For the moment, she had another Orc or two coming her way, and no time to think.

Isaviel readied herself to spin away, only to see two more coming in the other direction, much closer, shouting guttural battle cries. Automatically she backed up…and found herself trapped. A little desperately, she flung herself further against the rocks and heard a swing intended for her scrap against stone. Another whistle came, this one louder than before, and two sickening thuds. That Orc fell, gurgling, with two arrows in its throat. When Isaviel moved again though, she felt a great jarring blow against her spine, and a cruel, rasping laugh. Crying out, she lashed around with her kukri, ignoring the searing pain that action caused her, and left a long split across the Orc's twisted, greenish skin, cracking two teeth in its lower, jutting jaw, and splitting a purple lip. It roared, standing up to its full height and dropping its club, grasping at its face with dirty, gnarled hands._ Thud._ And it went down, too.

This gave a little respite, and Isaviel pushed back away from the wall, readying herself for her next attacker, wishing there were even a few shadows to blend with in this blinding light. She saw that Khelgar stood atop a pile of enemies, swinging his battleaxe with abandon. Elanee was aiding in this, using her bear's weight and paws to rend and smash their foes. Behind her, the Moon Elf could still hear the ringing of battle from the paladin and his group, but those sounds seemed quieter.

Watching her attacker coming at her, she understood why this grinning porcine brute, larger, more disfigured, wore such heavy and complete armour – and hefted such a particularly vast waraxe. By Fenmarel Mestarine! He was their leader. And he was not slowed by Bishop's swift arrows, swooping down at him from the rock-face only to skitter away from that armour. Thus when the Moon Elf tried to dodge the charge and enact a successful feint, only to come up short from the pain in her back, she had no time to recover. He was upon her, hitting her across the face with a heavy back-hand that sent her sprawling, her kukris clattering across the ground. She barely had time to roll away from his next strike, this one bearing the full weight of his axe, scrambling to regain her footing only for her back to collide agonisingly against the rocks behind her again.

The Orc leader leaned closer, tiny yellow eyes gleaming with dull-witted malice, and brought one long-nailed finger up to just beneath Isaviel's eyes, increasing enough pressure to draw blood. She felt the liquid trickle down her cheek and flinched back, fairly wretched at his stench as his weight pressed her to the rocks. This only worsened her troubles, however, for her movement allowed the sharp nail to scrape a path following that of the blood, and she yelled now from the pain. Satisfied and fairly drooling, the Orc brute lifted his axe for one more, surely fatal, blow. Isaviel watched it numbly as he kicked her feet from under her, forcing her head to collide with a jagged stone as she crumpled. She could here arrow after arrow bouncing from his armour, and was a little satisfied to hear Bishop's string of curses going with it. Not so cold-hearted as all that, then?

A great crack, as of thunder, resounded across the canyon and the Orc's eyes rolled back into his head, axe toppling to the ground behind him before his body followed with a great crash of heavy armour. Isaviel looked up unwillingly at the broad, plate-clad form this death revealed, but still she had to, and saw the tall form of the paladin silhouetted before her, his vivid blue eyes shining with righteous fury. His rune-carved hammer gave off that same pale blue light – a light all of its own.

Ignoring his proffered hand, Isaviel pulled herself to her feet, increasingly aware of how quiet the former scene of battle had become. Her tunic was sticky with the thick blood of the Orcs she had slain, while her own wound continued to bleed, back still throbbing. Khelgar and a once more human-shaped Elanee were rushing over to her by now, the latter rather gruesomely splattered with the blood of her foes. Bishop was also approaching, a little more slowly, glaring brutally now and refusing to meet her eyes. He was clutching a bloodied longsword in one hand and his bow in the other.

"Thank you," Isaviel mumbled uncomfortably to the paladin, who simply nodded stern-faced acceptance before his eyes focused on her cut.

"You are hurt," he said needlessly, his deeply resonant voice full of concern as he stepped forward, burnished plate-mail clanking with every step, his gloved hands already glowing with soothing light…

"Hey!" Khelgar cried out, at last finding his voice – which cracked on the word, showing that for some reason this paladin's aura had awed him greatly, "Yer not touching our lass, paladin or no!" and he had now managed to reign himself into a threatening growl.

"I am merely trying to heal her wounds, good Dwarf," the paladin assured over his shoulder, looking back to Isaviel with those hypnotic blue eyes, speaking more softly to her as she simply gawped at him, "If she will allow me."

Bishop snorted in derision at the sight and stalked away to start recovering his arrows, but Isaviel found herself trapped by the paladin's divine conviction and found that she could only nod in acceptance. Her throat went dry when the paladin brought one hand up to almost touch her cheek, his expression one of intense concentration as soothing warmth spread through the Moon Elf's skin. The flow of blood from the cut on her face stopped and much of the pain left her back. He was quite handsome, she conceded to herself, with those strong, rugged features and those enviously dark lashes…oh and those eyes…in a battle-weary, righteously-glowing, duty-bound way.

When the paladin opened his eyes he somehow managed to send her a tight smile, lowering his hands and quickly stepping back to allow the Moon Elf to move closer to her companions. Checking that the shards she carried were still secure in their pouches on her belt, she looked up in time to catch her cloaks and pack, against which her bow was strapped, as thrown by Bishop. He had taken her quiver of arrows to augment his own collection, and seemed in no mood to give it back. She did not bother to ask. There would be time for taking later.

"You are a member of the Neverwinter City Watch?" the paladin asked with evident surprise as his group of armoured fighters regained his side, a few pulling off their helmets and clapping each other on the backs. He had evidently seen the badge on her outer cloak as she was pulling those warmer layers back on.

"Only under sufferance," Isaviel sneered as she shouldered her pack one more, unsettled by his apparently pleased tone, "We aren't all bound to do our duty like you, paladin. And you…you are the Katalmach."

"Out of necessity, yes," he looked somewhat confused by her manner, his eyes watching Bishop distrustfully as the ranger finally reached Isaviel's side, leaving Karnwyr to lick up the blood of the fallen, "And since you are out here fighting with the Orcs I would presume we have a similar agenda? To stop the Eyegouger clan's dominance in these parts?"

"If that means we can get to the kidnapped Waterdeep emissary more easily, then yes," Bishop put in before Isaviel could respond, and the two men watched each other coldly, staring each other down. Isaviel wondered what it was that was making them act so aggressively. They did not seem to know each other.

"We also seek t' kill Logram Eyegouger," Khelgar added.

"And we have been seeking you, as it happens," Isaviel finished.

"We would be willing to help you in your cause," Elanee blurted, her voice oddly high.

Looking around at the young woman to see her blushing violently, Isaviel somehow managed to catch on to her intention without smirking, too.

"Yes, yes, of course. You want to stop the Orcs here, we want to infiltrate their lair and ruin their leadership and political leverage…I think we have some common ground," she grinned briefly, then glanced pointedly at his band of loudly armoured men, "Although, unless you intend to storm the place before it's due, it might be better for all of us if it was just you who came along."

"Oh, wonderful," Bishop grunted , turning away with a shake of his head.

"They can go back to the Greycloaks' leader, Callum, and tell him there has been a change of plan – we won't be needing any 'dressing up' anymore. We'll be going in the way they least expect…and we will be spilling Orcish blood. So he had better send men to help, or there won't be any Orcs left for him," she added with a confident grin, and heard Khelgar's gruff agreement, "That is, of course, if you do know the way to their lair?"

"Yes I do, my lady," the paladin nodded, "And you spoke wisely – my men should go to Old Owl Well. There is no need for unnecessary bloodshed." He seemed unaware of the hypocrisy.

While the paladin turned away to direct his men accordingly, Isaviel felt Bishop close behind her suddenly, one hand tight against her left side, the other coming up against her neck, holding her firmly as he hissed in her ear.

"You are a wicked Elf," his voice was full of fervour, "And I like your plan. Next time you have an epiphany, try not to almost die beforehand."

He released her before the paladin had turned back to them, his men just heading back north up the path, several more than a little unwilling. But no ill words were spoken, and they were soon all gone, their loud clanking audible all the way through the canyon.

"Who are you then?" Isaviel demanded once this was done, surreptitiously straightening her cloak after Bishop's words.

"I am Casavir, my lady, formerly of the Neverwinter Greycloaks. I will be glad to travel with you in our mutual goal. You have considerable skill at arms. All of you," he added, looking both at Khelgar and Elanee…but not for a second at Bishop.

She was surprised to find herself smiling at him as she introduced herself and her companions. Elanee, introduced last of all, had the prudence to ask that they might find a safer place to rest and clean their wounds, and Casavir obligingly led the way to a mountain cave he and his men had been using, not quite an hour's walk up a particularly narrow path branching sharply east further into the mountains…and considerably further up. Still, it was a good spot – easily defensible, with a fire area already set up at the centre of the cave, stocked with wood. The paladin did not appear to carry much with him, though there were some rudimentary stores of food and a couple of bed rolls. So, this was a more permanent hideout than she had expected.

"You are not just here to defend from the Orcish raids, are you?" Isaviel noted of Casavir as she sat against the cave wall, watching him light the fire as Elanee cleaned the Moon Elf's cut.

"No," the paladin admitted, flinching as Karnwyr padded closer to the seated pair, pausing to snarl at him with a bloodied snout, "I have been waiting for the right time to strike at the Eyegougers properly. You have brought me this opportunity."

"Aye, and we'll help ye complete it, too," Khelgar nodded, taking a seat close to the fire as its flames took hold, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together before fanning them out closer to the heat, "Even if that wretched ranger disagrees."

"Yes, we will," Elanee agreed softly, dabbing at Isaviel's cheek with a cloth wetted by clean water and an ointment the smell of which reminded her of Daeghun sitting with her by those hunting-day campfires in the evenings, tending to childhood scrapes. The sudden rush of the memory almost brought tears to Isaviel eyes, but she balled her hands into fists and fought back the sentiment.

"I am glad for your words, both of you," Casavir smiled, seating himself on the side of the fire closest to the back of the cave where he had discarded his armour, now only dressed in a simple white tunic and contrasting breeches.

"Ye are a paladin, aren't ye?" Khelgar began a little awkwardly, and when Casavir nodded, he ploughed on, "Would that be a paladin o' Tyr then, given ye from Neverwinter? I've been lookin' at getting t' the order o' monks there. The ones o' the Even-Handed."

"I am indeed, good Dwarf. I am a common breed, I fear, for I know of many paladins of Tyr and only a few of Helm. Some now have the words of Kelemvor on their lips as well," Casavir sounded almost amused by Khelgar's words, "And I am impressed by your goal, although I confess that I am a little surprised as well. You fight with both armour and battleaxe. Forgive me for saying so, but they are no tools of the monk of Tyr. Such people devote their lives to order and law, to concentration and discipline of the body and soul only. Your convictions and personal strengths become your protection."

"He speaks truly, Khelgar," Isaviel nodded wearily as Elanee patted her shoulder, the druid standing and taking Karnwyr by the scruff of the neck to lead him whimpering for a thorough cleaning while his master was out hunting, "My teacher in West Harbour, Brother Merring, told me of a great monk, Balthazar of the Bhaalspawn, who became all but invincible. His emotions were lost to him, his powers coalesced in tattoos across his skin. His hands and feet and all of his body could command force enough for any psyonicist. But think on it, Khelgar. You love to fight and your love of fighting would drain away with the rigours of discipline."

"No, ye don't understand," the Dwarf grunted, "I don' want to be a monk. I just want to learn how t' fight like one." But there was a disappointed look in his eyes, and it made Isaviel feel a little guilty.

"You are well informed, my lady," Casavir noted, "You sound as one who has learned some of the ways of the monks."

"I have," Isaviel admitted a little coolly, "I was raised by one who intended to send me to the Sun Soul monastery closest to here. But their way was not for me. You have seen how I fight."

"Yes, indeed," Casavir nodded, his eyes bright and intense in the firelight, watching her with evident intrigue, "And I see the way of the monk in you, though it sounds like you believe you have forsaken it. You were evidently taught well, and you look almost as if you were born to it. The Even-H…"

"Your 'wretched ranger' has brought you food, Dwarf, so you had better be more thankful…or I will make sure you go underfed next time."

Bishop's sneering voice interrupted carefully as he strode into the cave. He dumping a dead doe from around his shoulders at Khelgar's feet, evidently having heard his companion's earlier description of him.

"A good kill," the Dwarf admitted grudgingly, perhaps by way of a hunger-based apology. But the ranger was no longer paying him any heed.

"Why do I get the feeling you are trying to convert our prettily scarred leader, paladin?" Bishop asked, stalking over to sit by Isaviel's side, well-wrapped in his cloak and leaving his bow and quivers not far away.

"I intended no such thing, and you know it, Luskan," Casavir growled, and that gave Isaviel pause.

"What did you just call him?" Isaviel demanded, subconsciously bringing a hand up to her cut cheek and wondering if Bishop was right – would it scar?

"Has he failed to inform you? This one who travels with you hails from Luskan, the City of Sails. The cruellest of all Neverwinter's enemies. And the worst."

"I renounced my heritage a long time ago," Bishop snarled, beginning to rather pointedly sharpen his sword, "It is not very paladinic of you to pass judgement on a man just for his accent."

"You wear a cloak of Luskan make. No man of your ilk would buy it anywhere else."

"I could just as easily have acquired it in Mirabar or Bryn Shander."

"But you did not, did you?" Casavir demanded, and drew only a hard glare from the ranger.

"Stop, both of you!" Isaviel cried in exasperation, "Bishop can prove himself by skill at arms, and unless you have some better reason to distrust him I suggest you think more carefully about pre-judging him for his home town. I suspect all four of us here have willingly forsaken their homes for one reason or another. Especially you, Casavir, who hides so carefully away to fight off Orcs when once you were a Greycloak of Neverwinter."

"Aye, the lass has ye," Khelgar nodded, "And I'm not one for trusting the ranger, but she has ye there, Casavir."

"F-forgive me," the paladin offered at length, "I should have been less rash. Try to get some sleep soon – all of you. I would suggest we move out at midnight."

Isaviel nodded her assent as the paladin stood to take up the first watch, heading to the mouth of the smoky cave with his hammer in hand. Once the tension had eased following the argument, the three remaining by the fire began to prepare the deer Bishop had brought them, setting up a spit with the ease of practiced travellers. Shortly afterwards Elanee returned with more ingredients to go with it, Karnwyr in tow and looking cleaner and meeker then Isaviel had ever seen before. Bishop seemed hardly to notice, running a hand absently over the wolf's fur once the druid had taken over by the fire.

Several hours later once they had eaten and been seeking sleep for some time, Isaviel woke from her dreams of fire and death as she was wont to, only this time when she sat up with a gasp she saw Bishop's dark eyes watching her thoughtfully. There was an understanding evident in him, an ease she was not accustomed to. Elanee was curled up, fast asleep close by, while Khelgar was snoring typically across the way. Casavir's form was silhouetted darkly with his back to them at the mouth of the cave, and Bishop himself remained seated, now restringing his bow.

Wordlessly, the ranger stood, unclasping his thick cloak from around his neck and draping it unexpectedly around the Moon Elf's shoulders, leaving her quiver at her side as well. She only watched him blearily, barely comprehending and not fully awake, still sensing the visions of smouldering West Harbour and the sights of the dead and the sounds of the dying in the back of her mind. Something about the steadiness of his hands against her arms, of the heat of the cloak about her, soothed her enough to let her lie back down, her back to the ranger. She uttered no thanks and he asked for none, his expression still hard. But Karnwyr was less icy, approaching her where she lay, nuzzling her shoulder and quietly curling up by her as if he, too, understood. Smiling in sleepy surprise, Isaviel put an arm over the scrawny wolf's back and fell asleep to the feel of his soft fur.


	8. Where Shadows Dwell

Even through the lashing rain she could still smell the dried blood on Casavir's armour – and that which had soaked into her furs, too. Still, Isaviel was glad for the rain, which had come upon them suddenly, clouds gathering over the once perfect sky just as the stars had started winking into visibility. The cold, trickling droplets brought some relief after Casavir's tireless march through the mountains. They had strayed far from the path, leaving their packs behind in the cave , hidden behind a great boulder that had required uncomfortable teamwork from Casavir, Khelgar and Bishop, too.

As darkness had fully fallen Khelgar and Isaviel had been given the greater natural advantage – the Dwarf was of a race well adapted for the pitch black of underground caves, while the Moon Elf had been born with something better than the lowlight vision of her mother's kin. Elanee had been quick to change into the form of an owl, drifting almost silently above them from rock to rock, while Casavir led the way, his glowing hammer lighting the path with unsubtle blue radiance. It did not seem to be in a paladin's life code to be subtle. Karnwyr had taken to prowling in the gap between Casavir and Isaviel while his master brought up the rear of the group, preferring to carry a torch than travel in the paladin's blue light.

When Casavir stopped, leaning against a particularly steep section of jagged stone to peer around it to his right, and Karnwyr began to snarl quietly at the scent it caught from the Orcs below, the others were quick to join him. Khelgar was having trouble seeing over the rocks concealing them and Bishop had to put out his torch to keep their cover.

"Have you no way of covering up that light?" Isaviel demanded of Casavir, gesturing towards the glowing hammer he held. When he turned to her to respond, his smile was as unexpected as it was bright.

"'There is no, need, my lady, for no evil soul can see that light."

A little taken aback by the warmth of his words, Isaviel grew silent and the four stood and watched, Elanee perched on the boulder and looking down also, her owl's eyes large and reflective. In the silence Isaviel concentrated on the cold sting of the water to keep her alert. She felt somehow connected to her surroundings and safer for it, cooling to the temperature, breathing with the rhythm of the wind – which was not so bitter and violent as earlier in the day. Her hair hung in long dripping strands by now and droplets had collected on her long lashes, trickling like tears over her face when she blinked. The burn of her cut had returned and with it had come that ache in her chest where her scar ran.

"There are too many," Bishop stated darkly.

They all knew he was right as they watched scores of Orcs returning to the wide cave mouth below, almost as impervious to the weather as she felt, though their armour tinkled in the rain loudly enough to mingle with the similar sound on Casavir's steel plate. They carried torches, and most were large and burly, armed with a variety of more crude, Orcish weaponry and better steel, many with large upward jutting tusks rising from their prognathic jaws. A few were limping as if from battle, but they carried no wounded with them. Isaviel assumed they just did not have room for healing in their battle plan.

"We cannot turn back now," the paladin said firmly, not looking around.

"There are too many…_here_," Isaviel put in eventually, a slow smile growing on her face.

"What is your plan, my lady?"

"I'll tell you if you start admitting to yourself that I have a name. You can't bind me to duty with a false title."

"Very well. Forgive me…Isaviel. What do you have in mind?" Casavir corrected himself awkwardly, and Bishop chuckled to himself when the paladin stumbled over the Moon Elf's name for the first time.

"Good," she could not avoid her sneer, pushing back her hair as she considered her idea, "Have you noticed that the Orcs have human armour?"

"Yes, but we assumed they had simply stolen…"

"From the dead? Sir Callum told us they must be being supplied by someone before we set out, and that makes much more sense. They are too well armed to just be thieving. Someone _has to be supplying them_. And not through here, where all the clan can see. There must be a back entrance…"

"And those Orcs dig down, not across," Khelgar grunted in resignation – Isaviel knew that he would have much preferred to just try to storm the place, no matter how many Orcs they faced at the front entrance, "It won't be far – and it shouldn't be hard to find."

"This entrance you speak of…I believe I know where it must be," Casavir nodded, then paused, looking at Isaviel only, "Your deduction is admirable."

The Moon Elf grinned at Khelgar, who gave her the wryest look she could have believed possible from his outwardly gruff, bearded countenance.

"I could not have done that alone, Sir Paladin," she mocked.

Off to the side, Bishop watched them darkly for a moment longer before standing and stalked away back down the dark path with a grunt of disgust.

* * *

"You see."

Isaviel smiled triumphantly, brazenly stepping out into the narrow path as if to prove her point. From this remote, south easterly vantage point she fancied she would just be able to make out the bridge at which she had been ordered to meet Callum's men. Never one for following orders, it gave her greater satisfaction to not be able to see it than otherwise. Beyond it, beyond the great Sword Mountains that rose far higher than the comparative hills among which she stood, would be the distant gloomy grey-green swamp that was the Mere of Dead Men, Meredelain; the Slow-Marching Court. Its main town, its sole human settlement, was West Harbour, her childhood village.

"No point lookin' for home now, lass," Khelgar told her, patting her arm as he stepped out to join her, "We've a job to do."

Isaviel sighed and nodded, her large golden eyes meeting his deep-set brown ones. She had grown to trust the Dwarf for his great honesty, something which Neeshka sorely lacked, but she also wondered often why he favoured her so. At times it seemed like he had taken on an almost fatherly role despite his regular complaints about Elanee's Elvish ways, in spite of the druid actually being human. Neeshka had suggested flippantly that he was just glad to have someone around who was closer to his height. Isaviel had been quick to respond that Neeshka's view was clearly warped, as she was uncommonly tall and must have inherited her height from a pit fiend. The memory made the Moon Elf smile to herself.

"And we are finally here," Bishop sighed.

As the ranger reaching the Dwarf and the Moon Elf he brandished his brightly burning torch across the small tunnel entrance, roughly hewn out of the stone but evidently not natural, revealing only deep darkness. Boulders and stones reared up on three sides, barely parting to their left to allow the steep road they had just descended, while the path sloping drastically down behind them took an even more significant drop not far away.

The hoot of an owl quietened the group just as Casavir gained the broader, flatter path to join them, his armour screeching horribly against the stones as he took the last few steps down the incline followed by Karnwyr. Elanee dropped down, transforming with an eerie fluidity of forms into her human shape, feathers elongating to become her dress, large bird's eyes shrinking to a more human size and altering in colour as her face became clear.

"Greetings once more, druidess," Casavir smiled, and she nodded to him with a blush, an interaction which made Isaviel wince – were all paladin's taught to deepen girlish fancies aimed their way, or were they simply told to milk that issue for all it was worth? She wondered.

"And greetings to you," Elanee responded shyly, turning swiftly to Isaviel, "I have spied the Greycloak forces along the path to the front entrance of the lair, led by Callum himself and Lord Casavir's men as well. They will be upon the Orcs shortly – we must act quickly. I hope you know where to find Issani – and Logram, Isaviel."

"I am not certain," the Moon Elf admitted, "But I have a strong hunch."

The scar on her chest was aching horribly – it had done so both in the presence of the Dark Wizard, Garius's magic when he was consulting with Moire, just as it had for Bladelings and Giths. That would suggest then that within the lair awaited the cult's priests which the note left at the Thieves' Guild hideout had mentioned. What was more, she could _feel_ the shadows, thicker than the darkness of the night, emanating from the tunnel in a way she had not felt so strongly at the front entrance. In all likelihood, either Logram or the emissary would be close to the priests or their activities – hopefully both. After a moment, the Moon Elf nodded.

"I know what to do."

"Wonderful. Are you ready yet?" Bishop demanded roughly, but Isaviel rolled her eyes and otherwise ignored him.

"Elanee – could you stay out here with Khelgar? I think a bear might be a little more useful than a scouting owl now, though."

"Yes, of course," but the druid looked uncomfortable, "Although I do not know how much more of Nature's magic I can call upon to maintain such a form."

"Well, we don't intend to be in there all that long. You can always pray to your Chauntea for aid, right?" Bishop mocked, which drew a hoped-for growl of chivalric warning from Casavir.

"And _Bishop_," Isaviel added pointedly, turning to the ranger, "Do you think you can control your wolf long enough to make him stay here with Elanee and Khelgar?"

The ranger just sneered at her, but a simple look between him and Karnwyr seemed to change the wolf's attitude. The animal realigned itself to face the way down the road, prowling back and forth across the path like a guard dog on a leash.

"Yer wantin' me to stay out here with a fake bear and a real wolf then, lass?" Khelgar asked softly, his eyes showing his disappointment in the dim light cast by Bishop's torch, its flames warring with Casavir's blue glow for dominance.

"I'm sorry, Khelgar," Isaviel told him, putting a hand on his broad shoulder and finding she did mean her apology, "But I need you out here, yes. You're the strongest fighter amongst us and I will feel safer in there knowing I have you as my guard."

"Well, that's true enough," he admitted with a grin now, his chest puffing out just that little bit more with the compliment, patting her hand, "Fight well, lass."

"Don't you doubt it," she laughed, then turned to Bishop and Casavir, looking at each sternly, "Now, do you two think that you can work together well enough to join me in there?"

"As long as I get to see some blood," Bishop snarled, unsheathing his longsword ominously with an impressive ringing sound.

"I am honour bound to see this through, my lady…Isaviel," Casavir half-bowed.

"Alright then," Isaviel shrugged, bringing her hands to the hilts of her kukris as she bypassed them all, heading for the tunnel entrance, "Let's go. Bishop, if you would be so kind…" she prompted, and the pair went into the darkness together, followed a few moments later by Casavir.

As soon as they stepped into the tunnel proper, Isaviel just a little ahead of Bishop, who had discarded his torch to risk the darkness, knowing the Orcs would have lights regardless, the Moon Elf could feel the strange shadows; she could see them dancing, darker than the blackness. Evidently magical for it. Neither Casavir nor Bishop seemed to see them though, which only made Isaviel more curious. As she pressed on, her feet perfectly silent on the uneven ground, seeing the broad flames of a torch in a rudimentary sconce ahead where the opening tunnel was intersected by a broad, better established one, she fancied she could feel her body linking to the dark as it had to the rain. She could feel herself calming, as she had taught herself to, her body lightening.

In the light of the flame ahead were cast the shadows of two sentries, barely three feet away. Isaviel paused, bringing a hand up against Bishop's chest to stop him walking into her as a third form moved along the broad tunnel beyond, carrying a torch of its own.

"What _are_ you?" he mouthed suspiciously, seeing the shadowy insubstantiality of her fingertips deliberately curling over the rim of his tunic to touch his neck. It was the least of the tormenting he deserved after his earlier treatment of her. She pointedly did not answer, and looked back towards her prey.

Gesturing for him to wait, knowing he could see the confident smirk on her lips in the dim light, Isaviel crept ahead, unsheathing her kukris in one slow, silent motion. Dreading the moment Casavir's armour began to scrape horribly along the narrow opening passage, she knew she had to get there first before the sound alerted the sentries. In truth she would have preferred that Khelgar had joined her and the paladin had stayed outside, but she suspected Casavir would have been too stubborn about his duty, and that would have led to arguments with Bishop. She needed the ranger's stealth – and against the famed brutality of Orcs, she would need his bloody-mindedness, too.

Not giving herself too much time to think about her exposed position as she reached the mouth of the tunnel, the Moon Elf lashed outwards with both kukris, sending both Orc sentries to the ground. She was momentarily alarmed by her own action when one beast was decapitated, in spite of the vicious reputation of those weapons she favoured. Still, she only smiled sweetly at Bishop when he looked surprised by her brutal handiwork. And just that little bit impressed, too.

Sharing a vicious grin, they headed left quickly, the ranger almost matching her silence and not questioning how she knew which direction to turn. Hopefully Casavir would think to move the bodies –and have time to see in which direction they went.

This path was much dark than the alternative, where no torches were hung, the combination of hewn rock and thick soil dimly aglow with the eerie green radiance of underground lichen and fungi. Isaviel was acutely aware of the lack of guards along this route, as well as an absence of any new branching passageway. Why so linear? Why the shadows pulling her closer, and the ache in her chest only reinforcing her resolve? The silence seemed thicker somehow as she descended ever further. It seemed unnatural, like the place had been intentionally muffled. The darkness also felt…wrong, making her skin itch and crawl, whereas ordinarily she loved the concealing shadows. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and she wondered if Bishop felt it.

When the opening in the tunnel came, and the bright lights too, revealing a large cavern beyond full of flickering orange flames, Isaviel was not ready for what she saw. Hundreds of bodies, of humans and Orcs alike, lay strewn in untidy rows, all in various stages of decay. The smell, perhaps previously shielded by the same power creating the silence on the way there, assaulted her and Bishop both. It was a dreadful stench that had the Moon Elf almost on her knees, gagging until she could wrest control of herself, pulled up by the ranger, who was also struggling, coughing, a sickened look on his face.

A lone Orc was making his way gingerly over to the door at the far side of the cavern, opening the wooden portal there and vanishing beyond. Isaviel and Bishop were quick to follow. The Moon Elf feared those surrounding shadows more than the unforgiving light. Sprinting to the door, she almost forgot to pause, or to wait for her companion, who pressed a hand to the wood firmly to stop her recklessness, leaning against it and listening intently before nodding curtly.

Through the grating she saw no Orcs, just a battered, terribly thin man dumped on the cold stone ground. Undoubtedly this was the Waterdeep Emissary, from the crest embroidered on his tattered, bloodied tunic. Seeing this, Isaviel pushed the door open slowly and glanced back, past Bishop, to see Casavir reeling at the sight of the dead bodies across the cavern. The ranger followed her inside, staying at the door when they entered the small, roughly hewn chamber and she knelt in front of the emissary's barred cage.

"Issani," Isavile hissed, and the quivering young man looked up with a confused, frightened sound to meet her eyes.

Upon seeing the beautiful, if dishevelled, Elf kneeling before his cage door, attempting to break its lock, he almost collapsed backwards in relief.

"You are sent by the gods," he gasped hoarsely, bloodshot eyes wide, stopping her efforts by placing one withered hand on hers, "Truly, a Celestial. B-but you must listen to me. There are priests of Shadow here. They talk of raising the dead to build an army and march on Neverwinter."

"Priests of shadow?" Isaviel echoed – although she had read of it in the note, the fear in Issani's eyes had the truth of it make her blood run cold and a chill fluttered up her spine_._

"What in all the Hells have I got myself into?" Bishop growled from the door, "And that paladin is going to get us all killed, lingering to administer last rights to fallen comrades."

"You must stop the Orcs," Issani whispered quickly, imploringly, "Kill their chieftain, Logram Eyegouger, and they will attack Neverwinter's outpost no more."

The emissary fell silent then, gesturing for her to do the same and pointing towards the heavy door set in the wall to the right. Understanding, Isaviel crept closer to the iron portal, pressing herself back against the wall among the deepest shadows, listening intently.

"We supplied you to attack the humans, but instead you have suffered many defeats. Your Orcs are weak, Logram," a deep voice was growling menacingly. Human, as she had expected, with an accent that almost sounded like that of a Harbourman…

"If not for the Katalmach, your Shadow Priests would have more dead than they can count, but he strikes without warning or fear," a rough, ponderous voice was explaining – an Orc, "But I do not follow your master, this 'Black Garius', that self-styled 'Master of the Fifth Tower'. Our agreement was for my power over all the tribes and for we Orcs to be left at peace in the coming war…and when the time comes…"

Catching on to the importance of the conversation which the Moon Elf was overhearing, Bishop crept closer, daring to look through the gap in the slightly open door.

"In exchange for your tolerance of our presence," reminded a cold, almost metallic voice, thrumming with tainted power, "And to bolster our ranks of undead. So far you have only fully succeeded at one of these goals and have outrun our agreed time."

"I do not fear you, not you priests of Shadow and not your lord. Given more time…" the Orc was cut short by a cold laugh.

"Your time is up, Orc. Your Katalmach is here, his aura shines so brightly, casting away the darkness. Still," the voices seemed more distant, "Even the paladin's heart is heavy with shadows."

The low hum that had been growing stopped abruptly – and from the chieftain, Logram's hateful mutterings, his unusual guests had gone. His footsteps could be heard growing closer, and just before the door directly beside Isaviel swung open, Bishop moved swiftly, pulling her with him out of the way. He let go quickly, his longsword at the ready when they saw the massive Orc entering the room. Dressed in expensive hide armour and wielding a glittering greatsword, he was followed by several grumbling members of his kind. His blood red eyes surveyed the room, over every rough stone inch and empty torch sconce, passing over Isaviel to focus on Bishop.

Confused, the Moon Elf looked over at Issani to see him blinking about himself frantically, as if she had vanished. Come to think of it, she felt strangely light, and colder even than before. She could not feel the stone against her back anymore, or the ground against her feet. Looking down at herself as Casavir burst into the room, distracting most of the Orcs – including Logram – from Bishop, Isaviel saw that for the first time her entire body had become opaque, melded as one with shadows. Exulting in her success, she threw herself into the fray, startling both friends and enemies with her reappearance. But there was no more time for thought. They had an Orc chieftain to kill and an emissary to save.


	9. The Weight of Heroism

"The Watch cannot thank you enough for your recovery of Issani and your success in slaying the Orcs' leader. I hear that several of you are highly commended for aiding in the defeat of the rest of the clan, and Sir Callum speaks your praises very loudly. He does not give praise lightly, and is rarely ever loud," Captain Brelaina beamed from behind her well-polished desk, "Well done."

"You _could_ thank me enough, 'Captain', if you would just let me go back to The Sunken Flagon. You are lucky that I came here first at all – I am tired from the road and would very much wish to join my companions there," Isaviel told her acidly, "I have done a great deal for your Watch and would be very happy to acquire a permit to the Blacklake now, thank you."

"Though your petulance is not appreciated, I am willing to overlook it in light of your recent activity," Brelaina bristled visibly, folding her arms in front of her and looked over first at Casavir, who stood behind Isaviel, and then over at Cormick with an incredulous expression, "As for a Blacklake pass, that will come...once you have dealt with a new threat to Neverwinter. One brought upon us by you, so Cormick tells me."

"What?!" Isaviel exclaimed, looking over at the former Harbourman accusingly.

"I will leave him to brief you. Good day," Brelaina seemed to be smirking that little bit too much, her tone far too satisfied, as she strolled out of the brightly lit office.

"I am afraid it is true, Isaviel," Cormick admitted, "I have been informed of your issues with the shards by Daeghun via Tarmas while you have been away. I was once a travelling companion with your father, your uncle and Sand, as well as Tarmas, and when Daeghun learned that I was not just an officer high in the Watch but also coordinating your role here actively, he sanctioned telling me. As such, I know that not everything of your intentions need be known to Brelaina, and certainly not the men, but I had to tell her something when we got word of a group of Githyanki assassins holed up near Neverwinter."

"Oh gods," Isaviel felt so weary in that moment, and so very out of place in the company only of rigid Cormick and duty-bound Casavir.

"This is very serious, Isaviel," Cormick told her sternly, "I have given you advance warning – as it was the Cloaktower that alerted us to the threat. I didn't tell them why you were involved, but if you don't fix it soon they will want to know more. I have given Sand the details and he can inform you better than I in matters involving magic."

"Fine," the Moon Elf sighed, "I will go at first light."

"Thank you Isaviel – and good luck," Cormick offered, but she was already leaving the room.

Casavir caught up with her just outside the door, putting a gentle hand on her arm. When she span around, pulling herself from him sharply, her angry look was quelled by the calmness in his blue eyes.

"My lady…Isaviel. I have heard much of your plight now and I would very much like to help in any way I can. Although we do not always agree on…methods, or on honour, I believe you are worth fighting for. Please, let me help you and for as long as it is in my power you will have me to fight at your side."

"I…ah…alright…" Isaviel blushed to hear herself stumbling so for words, eventually straightening up and regaining composure, heading for the exit at a brisk pace with the paladin in tow, "You've proven yourself to be a valuable fighter, I'll welcome you for that. Although if you're needing a place to stay, I'm not sure what you'll think of The Sunken Flagon."

"It may surprise you to learn that I have been there before – many years ago, before I took the vows of course," he added swiftly, and when Isaviel laughed at his embarrassed tone, he laughed too.

* * *

"You have come to me in haste, I see," Sand noted drily as he personally opened the door for Duncan's young charge.

"I could not stand another moment of their arguments – Duncan and Sal are bickering over my decision to test out Qara's worth fighting in my…group. Casavir, the new paladin amongst us, and Bishop are sending each other foul glares across the tavern floor. Neeshka and Khelgar are trading insults like lovers trade kisses. I refuse to take it a moment longer, not when I have another fight to face tomorrow," Isaviel admitted in a rush, her eyes wide and honest, her shoulders slumped from weariness.

Not for the first, or the last time, he was struck by her beauty, her youth…and her absolute lack of resemblance towards Daeghun. She joked where he would become angry, and raged where he would simply shrug. Yet it all seemed very superficial. When she thought no one was looking, he saw her frightened look, the way the memories of death and fire gnawed at her. And now she stood before him, her hair dripping wet from a very recent bath, bound carelessly behind her head, leaving thin trails of water along the shoulders of her embroidered white tunic. It was a man's tunic, slit at the hips, he noted, and she wore her belt of daggers and kukris, with the two pouches for the shards. Her black cloth leggings were laced closely up the sides in the fashion of the female soldiers, and she kept those old West Harbour boots.

"Your cloak was your mother's you know," he told her as he stepped aside to let her in, closing the door behind her and hardly giving the golem it revealed a second glance.

"It was?" she asked, startled, stopping halfway to unclasping that very garment.

"Indeed. An heirloom of Myth Drannor's type, no less," Sand smiled, reaching out a hand to take it, and after a moment she let him do so, "You see this stitching? It is faded now, but this embroidery is cut out and reused over the centuries. So although the cloak is barely fifty years old, this silver pattern is closer to a thousand."

"How can that be?" the Moon Elf demanded, a small frown appearing on her face. Ah, doubt. He liked that in her.

"Enchantment. And unbeatable creative technique. The Moon Elves of Myth Drannor were powerful, prideful and insular. But they were creative, too, and their loss means the loss of some beautiful things. Such simple stitching is an example of their ghost."

"Can the enchantment do anything?" she asked as they took their usual seats at his working desk behind the stairs and he poured her a cup of wine.

"I do not know, alas. Esmerelle would have, but she never told me. You are lucky that Daeghun's house escaped the worst of both conflicts which it has stood witness to."

"You also knew my mother? Why does Daeghun tell me nothing?" Isaviel asked, angry at the world in general.

"Really," Sand raised an eyebrow at that, half-amused, "I could claim to have a bone to pick with him about that. She was my elder brother's _wife_ for many a year. Two centuries, in fact…"

"_You_ are a half elf?" the Moon Elf asked with incredulity, and Sand had to laugh.

"Of course. Had you not wondered how I knew Tarmas in our shared youth when I appear so very much younger than he? Anyway, they parted ways perhaps three decades after my birth, when I was only a little older – in years, if not lifespan – than you are now. But they remained friends and I came to know her well. Her adventures were many and far ranging and she was gone for much of the year, but always stopped over…at our home on the way to visit Shayla near West Harbour as she did every winter. When I had been training as a wizard long enough to acquire some skill at the craft, she was willing to let me travel with her, to visit Shayla and her new lover, Daeghun. He was a much more emotionally open man back then, and we all became close friends, along with my friend from youth, Tarmas, and Daeghun's Harbourman friend Cormick. At that time we were young and foolish and wanted adventure, and ah, the fun we did have. For ten years it lasted, and then the Battle of West Harbour came, where the King of Shadows waged war against all of the Sword Coast," he paused for a long time then, his thoughts lost in memories of the past, spinning his wine cup around and around in his hands.

"Daeghun never told me anything," Isaviel all but whispered the words, "I know nothing of my mother." Her eyes were dry, but they might as well have been swimming with tears.

"I can tell you little. But that she was almost as beautiful as you, not quite so…wilful. And she never said a word of your father. I never knew her when she was pregnant, and you were still an infant I heard of only from Tarmas before the Battle came. She was the last of us to settle down, and loved adventure the best of all of us. She was far older than Daeghun, and had a lot of history behind her that we never learned. Shayla would have known. But…alas."

"Thank you for telling me, Sand," Isaviel managed a smile, and he saw that the honesty did not come easy to her.

"One more thing before we speak of what you must do tomorrow. I had word from Daeghun."

"And why should that matter to me?" the Moon Elf demanded, visibly bristling at such a mention of her foster-father.

"You will want to know this, though you may not admit it openly," Sand said gently, not pausing to give her a chance to respond, "He told me that West Harbour has been under construction since you left, and there has been no sign of attack. Even the mists over the town have receded, and people have begun to return properly to salvage what they can of the harvest," on impulse he reached out across the table and put a hand over hers, but when she looked up at him from her cup, her eyes gave nothing away, "There is hope yet."

The silence stretched, and eventually he broke it by giving her all of the details she would require to help her as best as was possible in overcoming the camped Giths. There were some twenty of them, but if Isaviel utilised all of those available to her – Casavir, Khelgar, Bishop along with his wolf, Elanee, Neeshka and even Qara, he knew they had a chance. She looked confident when he had finished explaining the details to her, and he had faith in her that grew even more once she related her plan of action to him.

Evening had long crept in to cover the docks when Isaviel was refastening her cloak and making a move to leave, her hair hanging loose about her waist by now, almost dry. She paused when the golem opened the door for her, and turned back to look at the wizard thoughtfully, for all the world looking just like Esmerelle.

"Do you know anything about a man called 'Black Garius'? I've heard mention of him recently, something about a 'Fifth Tower' and Luskan."

"I am sorry to say that I do not know much. If I am right he broke away from the four-spired Hosttower of the Arcane, but I have no knowledge of a fifth tower. There have always been four in Luskan – those of the four ruling wizards. A dreadful bunch, if you ask me. The men of one's nightmares. Liches and would-be demi-liches all if you ask _anyone _who knows anything about Luskan magic, too," Sand added, "But I will look into the issue for you, where I can. For now, think on the sleep you will get. There is nothing better than a bed after weeks away from proper sleep."

* * *

"And where have you been all this time? The druid has been pacing most _ardently_ in her wait for your return," Bishop's voice mocked Isaviel as she slipped through the back door of The Sunken Flagon, hoping to go straight to her room. His arm barred her path in the dark corridor.

"I don't care what the druid wants. Elanee did not expect to be back from her divergence to Skymirror so soon. She can wait another night," Isaviel told him archly.

The Moon Elf was not at all surprised when he stopped her attempt to dodge around him by putting his other hand against the wall, his body close to hers. She smirked up at him, not at all afraid, though his dark eyes were blazing in the dim light. It seemed more important that he was close and warm, both of them free of the sweat and blood of the road. His armour was elsewhere, and he was dressed less threateningly in a simple tunic and trousers. Even his daggers were not visible, if he had them with him.

She noticed that he smelled of wine as she leaned closer in the small gap he gave her, reaching up to the neckline of his shirt to touch the beginnings of those strange scars that started at the base of his neck and continued over his left shoulder. He just watched the path of her fingers as she pushed the cloth away from his skin a little to better see the extent of the old wounds. Burns, clearly, leading to a great scar covering the entirety of the curve of that shoulder.

"And where did you get these?" she asked softly, running her hands over the scars as he caught her a little roughly by the waist, pulling her to him hard and suddenly he was _very _close.

"The day that I _burned_," he growled into her hair, then began to tip her head back, as if he meant to kiss her…

"There ye are, lass," Khelgar's voice called rather loudly from the far right end of the corridor, where it turned left and ended at the accommodation area's door to the tavern, "Elanee is waiting for ye. Might be she has something worth hearing for a change."

Laughing at Bishop's frustrated growl, Isaviel pushed against his chest and stepped free. She watched him mockingly over her shoulder as he glared at her, too, and then turned up the narrow stairway – indented into the wall against which he had pressed her – to his solitary attic room. When the Moon Elf looked back at Khelgar he gave nothing away in his expression, but his lack of kind words was enough for her. Of course he did not approve – and she just did not care.

She followed Khelgar wordlessly into the tavern area, where Elanee was pacing anxiously in the newly emptied establishment. Neeshka was standing by the fire, staring into the flames and holding a flagon of ale, apparently preferring The Sunken Flagon for the time being while the Thieves' Guild got up and running properly, Karnwyr asleep by her feet. Duncan was talking with Casavir at one of the tables, their voices hushed, their expressions serious. Isaviel could not begin to comprehend how they had to ended up that way, having never met officially before that afternoon. Qara was pretending to clean the bar, but really was now gawping at Isaviel, clearly not quite sure what to feel about the offer extended towards her, suggesting she fight for them rather than wait on them.

"Ah, there you are!" Elanee gasped, rushing over to the Moon Elf as soon as Isaviel entered the room. The young woman's eyes were distraught, her form slumped within her brown robes as she stood there, "I have ill news. I have spoken with Elder Naevan, of the Circle of the Mere, through the Skymirror as I promised, and he has told me of a great darkness, a polluting presence growing in the Mere. He says that the Circle…it is lost. He suggests that the King of Shadows, or his like, may be upon us."

This disturbing news, although not fully comprehended by most of the group, cast its own shadow, returning Isaviel's mood to its earlier weary resignation. Was this all there was to say? The words were brief, but the meaning was weighty enough. Still, she was glad that it silenced any questions about why she had stayed at Sand's for so long – the truth being that she had been all but openly avoiding them. From the looks of things, Casavir had already filled them in about the assassins hiding outside Neverwinter, and Isaviel determined to tell them her plans in the morning. It was already troublesome enough that those around her knew that such times as these called for a hero…and they expected to find that hero in her.

Sitting well away from the murmurs of the others, at a table by the far right-hand window, Isaviel sighed and rested her elbows on the sill. Down the narrow, lamp-lit, dirt-ridden streets meandered those tired, life-weary dockworkers, or their wives, sometimes even children at this late hour. Not all had homes – not all of them had a hope of food or gold any time soon. Mangy dogs, starving, searched the side alleys for scraps of food or maybe a place to sleep – or die. The Moon Elf could just about see a stretch of the harbour water from her vantage point, glittering silver in the moonlight. She looked past moored boats swaying slowly there, deeper out into the west, where the Sea of Swords truly frothed and roared and raged.

_I could still be out in the marshes if it weren't for these wretched shards._ Just her and the moonlight and the night-time hunt. She had not realised how much she missed West Harbour's lands, if not her life there, until she had seen it destroyed and realised she could not return, not while the strange shadows loomed there and she carried the shards.

"…and then there are the assassins," Neeshka was explaining to Qara, and that stirred Isaviel from her reverie. It looked like the fiery sorceress was willing to join them after all.

"Right," the Moon Elf said, standing with determination and setting her expression, "Let's deal with the assassins first and then go to Aldanon in the Blacklake for more answers. For now though, I think we have deserved some sleep, don't you?"

* * *

The assassins, of course, had been a surprisingly large force of Githyanki, making their lair in the cellars of an abandoned warehouse just outside the city. Bishop had been absent from The Sunken Flagon that morning, Karnwyr as well and although Duncan did not seem surprised, he only shrugged and gave no explanation.

The fighting had been difficult, but Elanee's restrained magics and Qara's awesomely destructive powers, combined with careful stealth from Neeshka and Isaviel had won the day. Somehow they had avoided any major injuries, even from the headlong charges of Khelgar and Casavir. When the more law abiding members of the group had left, rather pointedly turning a blind eye to Neeshka, Isaviel and Qara's suspect choice to stay, the Moon Elf had suggested to the sorcerer that she set the ancient warehouse alight. The look the young woman had given her once they had all been staring up in awe at the flames it created was one that made Isaviel realise that she might have been forgiven for her earlier aggression. It made her feel a little more at ease – Qara's powers were vast, and she would rather have them used by one at her side than someone trying to get revenge.

Once they had reported into Brelaina to tell her of yet another accomplished quest, she had finally given Isaviel a permit to the Blacklake District, if only under ranking Watch supervision and a quick escort to the vast, sweeping mansion owned by Aldanon on the western edge of the area. In Isaviel's opinion it had not been quick enough – none of them had thought to change from their earlier skirmish, so determined to get answers, and only Qara looked presentable. The finely dressed inhabitants of the area were prone to stopping and staring at the spectacle of the battle-befouled adventurers being escorted through their home district, and none of those looks were friendly ones.

Neeshka had been quick to point out the enormous castle looming high on a steep-sided hill beyond, surrounded by vast grey stone walls.

"That's the home of Lord Nasher Alagondar, the leader of this city," she was telling Elanee, who still looked confused, "There must be so much treasure held in there…and of course, that marble _palace_ beside it is the Academy."

"I certainly don't miss that place," Qara had scoffed, but she could not keep her eyes off its wondrous decorations all the same.

The rich blue curtains were all closed tightly shut over the grand arched windows of Aldanon's manse. The garden, surprisingly small at the front of the building, was wild and untended, lichen growing out of the eyes of the two stone statues hewn out of the wall to loom under a deep porch to either side of a vast wooden doorway. At the centre of this portal hung a golden ring with a large claw-shaped knocker on its lower curve.

As she stood there, waiting for an answer to her rather unexpectedly heavy-handed knock, Isaviel could only feel increasingly out of place. Here the streets were broader, kept carefully clean, and every building was thrice the size of her home in West Harbour. Neeshka was certainly feeling it, too, looking rather suspect either when wrapped in her dark cloak or otherwise to reveal her travelling leathers beneath. Elanee's brown robes and branch-adorned hair were gaining her points and laughs – and to her credit she dealt with such responses with admirable calm. Khelgar seemed unfazed, while Casavir's armour was at least expensive enough to fit in with the area, and Qara's blue dress meant she did not get even a second glance from any of the Blacklake inhabitants.

Isaviel was jolted from her thoughts when an oddly friendly voice, that of an old man, tinged with the precise tones of nobility, sounded from behind the thick door.

"You are here with the quicksilver I need for my shard experiment, are you not?" he asked hopefully.

"Shard? Sounds familiar," Khelgar grunted quietly to Neeshka just behind the Moon Elf.

"I am…afraid not," Isaviel called, a little taken aback, "But I do have some shards that you might be interested in."

"Really? How wonderful!" the voice cried, "You know, I do have plenty quicksilver, it's just that one can never have too much. You never know when a shard might just turn up at your door," several loud thuds followed, "There. I think I've removed all the wards."

The door swung open, revealing a somewhat dishevelled, white haired, upright old man. Despite his slightly dazed countenance his pale eyes were bright, and beyond him even the hallway was dominated by cabinets and bookshelves overflowing with glass jars of alchemical oddities and vast, dog-eared tomes. The walls and ceiling were bare, but the floor was tiled with an elaborate mosaic, apparently depicting some scenes throughout Faerûn's history.

"Thank you," Casavir smiled, the only member of the group to show such a courtesy as they all trooped inside the corridor, a bluish haze created by the closed curtains once the door was shut as well.

"Well met to you all," the man was telling them absently as he relocked all of the bolts and chains holding the door shut, eventually turning to smile brilliantly, "Sit all of you please," he gestured to the two soft couches opposite each other against the corridor walls, the ones least covered in books.

"So," the old man continued, smoothing down his blue wool tunic, which had some tell-tale singe-marks around the broad sleeves, "You have another shard? Another two, perhaps? Yes? Absolutely fascinating…and quite mysterious, too, of course, but that goes without saying, doesn't it?" he waved away a confused-looking servant through the only open door at the far end of the hall, revealing a vast library beyond overflowing with scrolls and half-spilled inkwells, as well as still more tomes.

"We…" Isaviel began, but the man did not seem to hear her.

"I am Aldanon of course. You did come to see me, did you not? Yes. Good, good. You must forgive me for my greeting. Normally I am rather…reclusive, what with a murderer on the loose. Heard the third lord was killed just last night – fat lot of good that lockdown on the Blacklake has done us, then. And what with all of these young nobles sneaking around my house at night, I've had to place wards around the entire area, and it's not that easy for me to leave anymore."

"Young nobles?" Isaviel asked sceptically, thinking of the morning's fight with the Giths. _If he has a shard… _

But Aldanon was nodding emphatically.

"Well of course. I've seen them sneaking around in the dark. They obviously want my house. But they know I would never sell it. I'd rather give up my left eye, although my right does annoy me at times so that would be an easier sell," he sighed nostalgically, "When I first settled here this humble abode was on the outskirts of Neverwinter, bordering acres of untouched wilderness. But thanks to rebuilding following all that plague nonsense my home might as well be on the main thoroughfare of the city! And all nobles want to live here, so it makes sense that they would try to take my home."

"Are you sure they are nobles, Lord Aldanon?" Casavir asked concernedly, and the scholar blinked at him incredulously.

"Certainly. Who else would be sneaking around my home, present company excluded? Ah yes, that's right, you came here for a reason."

Nodding uncomfortably, Isaviel began to explain her recovery of the two shards currently in her possession, and of the strange events leading up to that point. Throughout Aldanon listened carefully, an expression of increasing amazement evident on his face.

"Great Tyr!" he exclaimed when she had finished, seating himself stiffly on the opposite couch, "You have certainly come to the right person, young lady. You see, I also acquired a shard, some time ago. My numerous tests had, very disappointingly, unsuccessful outcomes. But with others to compare it with, I may be able to gain some results."

"Here, then," Isaviel removed the two shards she carried from her belt pouches and handed them to him, "But I want these back. And where did you find your shard?"

"Well," Aldanon paused, frowning, eyes drifting off into the mid distance, "I am sure it would make for a fascinating tale…but I just do not remember, I am afraid."

"Think back," Casavir urged him gently, "There must be something you can tell us."

"Hmm…someone must have given it to me. Ah, I remember a well-dressed man, perhaps nobility – though I would never ask such a personal question – who gave the shard to me. He asked me to study it and to report my findings, but never returned. Fortunate, since I had no answers for him. And I never did catch his name. Irrelevant I suppose," he smiled then, looking back at Isaviel, "Thank you – I will be back soon," and he vanished through a side door.

"Gods. Talking to him is almost as bad as suffering a lesson at the Academy," Qara groaned.

"He is a renowned scholar, long in the service of Neverwinter. He deserves your respect, not your derision," Casavir scolded, but the sorceress just sniffed disdainfully, looking away from the paladin, who was the only one of the group choosing to remain standing.

"More importantly," Khelgar put in, "He's only tryin' to help Isaviel. If ye didn't want to learn somethin' ye should 'a stayed at the Flagon."

"I agree," Elanee nodded, looking as uncomfortable in the opulence of the mansion as Isaviel felt, "He is wise and we would do well to listen to him."

A thoughtful and certainly hopeful silence fell on the group. They had been waiting for some time before Aldanon stepped through a door – a different one from that which he had vanished through earlier. His hair was even more wild than before, his eyes wide with wonder. He quickly handed the shard back to Isaviel, holding a third silvery piece as he paced back and forth in front of them, stopping from time to time only to repeat the process, deep in thought. He spoke with as much rapid urgency as his meandering mind would allow.

"Well," Aldanon began, "With another set of shards as a comparison I have learned quite a lot actually. The magic they retain could come from a strong enchantment when they were whole – or from the method of destruction which brought them to their present…disparate appearance. I suspect it is from both, however. Furthermore, they resonate when brought together, increasing their magic output drastically. They are, in fact, pieces of a broken Githyanki Silver Sword. Are you familiar with the Githyanki?"

"Only in killing them," Isaviel shrugged, confused, "What is a Githyanki Silver Sword?"

"What our leader means to say is that we would be honoured if you would tell us more," Casavir put in, and earned a frustrated scowl from Isaviel. Aldanon, however, seemed hardly to notice the paladin, already formulating his answer.

"The Githyanki are a race of beings which dwell in the Astral Plane, under the leadership of the Lich Queen, Vlaakith – not a nice lady, I hear."

"Are liches ever nice?" Neeshka mumbled, but the scholar remained oblivious.

"Ages ago their ancestors were human, inhabiting another place of existence entirely where they were enslaved by the Illithids, more commonly known as the Mindflayers. Then came Gith, who led her people in rebellion against the Elder Brain and its Illithid servants. Gith is considered a hero of her people, and the founder of the Githyanki, allowing them to found their home in the…somewhat changeable realm of Limbo in the Astral Plane.

"As for the Silver Swords, they are forged with the special purpose of severing the chords that hold Astral travellers to their solid counterparts, killing them instantly. It is said they appear as an ordinary Githyanki weapon until used in combat, where the Silver Swords become a column of flowing, shimmering liquid. Really quite amazing, I imagine. Considering all this, then if the shards really are pieces of a Silver Sword, this explains why the Githyanki have come to Faerûn – to collect them. I am confident that you are not the only one who they know of in possession of shards, but whatever you do – do not try to just hand them back. You are branded a villain in their eyes eternally now. Better to keep that which you have."

"But what's so important about a Silver Sword to the Githyanki? They must have hundreds left," Neeshka pointed out.

"Yes, but I suspect they are probably as interested in learning why it broke as they are in retrieving it. After all, I have never heard of one being broken before, although theft of them is not so rare."

"Is there anything more you can tell us beyond past events?" Elanee queried softly.

"I'm afraid not," Aldanon sighed, "Ammon Jerro, court wizard of Neverwinter some years ago, would be the one to ask. He was the real expert, and actually owned a Silver Sword, I believe."

"Alright, where can we find him then?" Isaviel demanded, her patience fast running out.

"Well finding him would do you little good. He's dead now, his family moved far away after the war with the King of Shadows at West Harbour. It was all a very quiet affair, his death. Apparently what his family wanted, but I think it is a sad day when a humble, little-known scholar deserves no more than a footnote in history. Makes me wonder if anyone will remember me when I am gone," Aldanon added forlornly.

"I am sure…" Casavir began, but Isaviel interrupted sharply.

"We haven't the time, Casavir."

"Well, didn't he have any records of his knowledge? Isn't that what you scholars do, write down stuff that you know?" Neeshka suggested.

"Well, of course, there is too much to remember. We have not the memories of the druids, you know," Aldanon smiled vaguely at Elanee before catching on, "Actually there is Ammon Jerro's Haven. I have no idea where it is but you could find information on its location in the secure vault of the city Archives just down the road. Normally it would take weeks to gain access, but ask to speak directly with Archives Administrator Cotenick. He has been known to let me in quietly on occasion and is an old friend. If you, er, tell him that 'Aldanon comments on the resplendence of Beshaba's bathing tub' he will know you are there on a matter of great urgency."

Filled with hope now, Isaviel stood quickly, soon followed by her friends in thanking Aldanon warmly for his – finally productive – information before heading for the door.

"So how do you intend to persuade our minders to take us to the Archives?" Khelgar asked doubtfully before they left.

Isaviel grinned confidently, winking at Neeshka who laughed in understanding even before the Moon Elf explained.

"Charming the Watch shouldn't be too hard. Up for it, Qara?"

"Well," the sorceress looked momentarily flattered, "It won't be as fun as watching them go up in flames, but sure, making fools out of a couple of weak-minded men is the next best thing. Let's do it," she glanced at the others imperiously stepping up beside Isaviel, "The rest of you follow behind."

"Wait, before you go," Aldanon tapped the Moon Elf on the shoulder, holding out the third shard, "Take my shard, I'm sure you can defend it better than I and who knows, you may find more."

He seemed dazzled by Isaviel's resulting brilliant smile. Finally understanding her plan for the Watch, Khelgar snorted a laugh and Casavir looked distinctly sickened.

* * *

Upon their arrival at the Archives it had been strangely quiet and empty within the main building. None of the guards had seemed present, all the doors forced open. Then they had found all of the guards dead in the next room, among several slain Githyanki. Within the secure Archives they had found little more than a chaotic mess of scattered books and torn sheets. There were no more Githyanki, just a large tome on a central pedestal left open under the heading of Ammon Jerro. Though half of the page had been torn away, the remaining information was just as important.

"Looks like Ammon Jerro does have some family we can trace, after all. Shandra Jerro, who has a farm halfway to Highcliff."

"If the Githyanki are after her, we need to get savin' her!" Khelgar cried.

"I can feel the energy left behind by a portal, the way the Giths left. I think I have enough power to reopen it and get us through, too. They haven't been gone long," Qara explained.

"So we shall have a hope of saving Shandra. Come, we must hurry!" Casavir cried dramatically once the portal had been reopened.

Isaviel rolled her eyes, but as one they hurried forth.


	10. Those Who No one Can Trust

Isaviel and her companions stumbled through Qara's reopened portal onto a broad, dusty path flanked by thick forest, and just ahead, silhouetted against the rising sun, strode a group of some ten Githyanki. Their goal seemed obvious, and only became clearer as the companions rushed in pursuit. The path was a short one, some shallow flagstone steps leading into a large yard dominated by a huge barn, already ablaze by the time Isaviel saw it, and a one-storey house. Three large fields lay ahead before relinquishing land to the hills and continued forest beyond, all framed by the distant greyish ghost of the Sword Mountains. They were bare of crops – all of the farmer's livelihood must have lain in that barn.

"What in all the Hells is going on? What have I ever done to you? Those are all of my crops!" a woman's voice cried – not shrilly, as Isaviel might have expected, however. The tone sounded more like one of anger.

A young blonde woman, dressed in a greyish shirt and brown working leggings, was rushing towards the barn even in spite of the further three armed and snarling Giths still holding torches to it. The others only cackled when the farmer brandished her scythe at them, scraps of hay fluttering from its blade to land limply at her feet. When the ten just arriving drew their swords and began a languid advance towards her, the woman still stood her ground, not seeming to even register Isaviel and her group now running to get to the scene.

The tallest and largest of the Giths, this one dressed in scraps of leather aglow with magically gleaming jewels, spoke some guttural words to a smaller section of his group, gesturing towards the woman. Then he turned to snarl at the others, who threw their torches into the fire and drew their weapons, too. His eyes focused hatefully upon Isaviel, only upon her – he seemed no more aware of the others than did the farmer, who was presumably Shandra Jerro.

"You!" the leader of the Githyanki group snarled, "You will die here, Kalach-cha!"

As he spoke, Shandra lashed out automatically at one Gith who had come too close – enjoying toying with her fear too much. It clearly had not been expecting such, and though it blocked her first attack, her second swing shortened it by half a head. Only then did Shandra scream as the creature's yellow blood spurted all about, pooling at her feet. Dropping her scythe in horror, she turned and sped for her house, and when it was clear there was nowhere else for her to go, the remaining two preferred to join their leader's band than go in after her and risk the fate of their companion.

"We'll deal wi' this, lass! You go and help that girl!" Khelgar cried as he hurtled into the fray, soon followed by Casavir, along with Elanee in her bear form.

Nodding quickly, the Moon Elf sprinted to the farmhouse. Knowing the door would be locked – and maybe barred too – she used her running momentum ahead of time, all of Brother Merring's lessons of combat suddenly feeling useful. Leaping into the air at the precisely correct moment, she raised one leg in front of her and felt the humming force that came with years of practice and utter concentration. Kicking outward then, her sole collided with the door and she felt the psionic energy leave her, crashing into the wood and shattering the door spectacularly, planks and splinters lodging themselves into the far wall. So much for aiming for control like that of Balthazar of the Five.

Landing in a run, Isaviel stumbled as she attempted to turn, not at all expecting the continuing force her footsteps emitted and crashing onto the floorboards within the building, cursing as she threw herself back to her feet. As she did so, she saw the door at the end of the short, narrow corridor slam.

"Shandra!" Isaviel called, running to the door and shouldering it open when she encountered resistance, "We're here to get you away from the Githyanki, but you need…"

"Stay away! Don't come any closer, I'm warning you!" the woman cried angrily, backing up against a bedpost in the otherwise empty bedroom, attempting to brandish a broom with as much success as she had her scythe. Isaviel's palm came out on reflex and shattered that, too.

"I'm sorry about your door…less so about your broom," the Moon Elf admitted, wrenching the last half free of the woman's grasp, "You realise that won't do you any good as a weapon, don't you?" Angered when the woman started grasping for something else to hit her with, she pulled free a kukri from its sheath and the ring of real metal stilled the woman, "This is a weapon. And unlike _you_ I do not intend to use it against one I should hope to gain as an ally."

Still glaring at the woman, she had felt the shift in sound as an enemy entered the building, and when that Githyanki came rushing into the room, Isaviel spun about and severed its head. When she whirled back around, Shandra hurled a –thankfully empty – chamber pot at her head. She had not expected that, and though she dodged it the metal handle collided with her cheek and opened a cut there.

"What do you want from me?" Shandra demanded, looking a little startled by the injury she had caused and trying so very hard not to look at the dead monster lying on the floor of her bedroom.

"Well right now I am trying to rescue you," Isaviel growled, flinching when she wiped blood from her lips, "Though I _will_ change my mind if you don't calm down and come with me."

"I won't go anywhere with you. You're just as bad as those…things…for all I know."

"You will confuse me more with them if you add to my lovely array of scars, you farmyard wh…"

"No!" Shandra cried as a great rush of flame spread through the thatched roof above them, already coughing in the smoke as heat poured through the room and clumps of burning straw began to fall all around them, "That's my house! But…come on! Let's get out of here."

Unexpectedly she took the Moon Elf by the arm and fairly pulled her out of the broken remains of the front door, kicking aside an obstructing snapped plank as if she had never owned the place. They escaped just in time, for the house was engulfed in flame but moments later, timber snapping loudly and sending the walls toppling over just feet behind them.

The offending Githyanki were already lying dead, Isaviel's companions peering anxiously through the smoke for the two, calling out the Moon Elf's name at intervals. Before Isaviel could respond, a leather-clad Githyanki materialised out of the smoke between her and Shandra, magical flame crackling at his fingertips. He must have been one of those to start the blaze, she realised.

"Shandra!" she cried in warning, and the woman barely had time to turn before the Githyanki mage was within touching distance.

Shandra screamed, but the mage never reached her, collapsing to the ground before her, already dead. Sighing in relief, Isaviel sheathed her dagger before reaching Shandra's side and leading her, speechless, towards the others.

"Thanks," the woman offered eventually, surprise evident in her voice, "Maybe I should have gone with you, after all."

"You really _should_ have," Isaviel corrected, attempting to dust herself off and wincing when she noticed an unexpected tear in her black tunic, exposing a long cut in her side.

"My lady!" Casavir exclaimed and moved as if to help her but Isaviel waved him away angrily, turning to Shandra.

"Do you think you can trust us now?" she demanded.

"Honestly, I don't know," Shandra admitted, her bright blue eyes wide as she took in the dead Githyanki behind them, her ruined house now just a burning wreck, before turning to observe the unusual band before her, "But I've given up on running…for now."

"Look, Isaviel, we really need to get out of here before more of those creatures show up," Neeshka pointed out, eyeing Shandra mistrustfully before focusing again on her friend, "And you're hurt; we can't risk more fighting now."

"The Tiefling's right, lass," Khelgar agreed uncharacteristically, "We're needin' to get back t' the Sunken Flagon."

"That's a safe place, right?" Shandra asked uncomfortably.

"It's a _tavern_," Qara told her scornfully, wandering back over to join them after admiring the barn collapsing at last in a great burst of more flame, "A Docks District tavern. How many of those do you think of as safe?"

But Isaviel just shrugged, wincing and holding her side as pain shot through her, "It's the safest place we know, at any rate. And Casavir? Elanee? A little healing would go a long way right now."

* * *

"Well now," Duncan greeted cheerfully as the group came trudging back into his tavern, "I see you've brought someone new to my establishment. Now, who is this young lady, Isaviel?" And he simply could not keep his eyes off Shandra long enough to even look at his niece.

Isaviel sent a suspicious look the half-elf's way as the group crowded around the only available table, one at the far left side of the room by the door to the accommodation, with only enough seats for four of them. The Sunken Flagon was alive with many rowdy patrons, Bishop and Karnwyr at their usual places near the fire. The ranger hardly even looked up as they entered, his expression brooding when he did meet Isaviel's eyes, surreptitiously gesturing for her to come over. She nodded slightly with as strong a smile as she could manage as the others formed up, and he looked away again, evidently understanding that there was business to attend to first.

The Moon Elf took a seat by Qara stiffly. Once they had travelled far enough from the farm, Elanee had been able to tend to her wound properly, where Casavir had quickly used his paladinic magics to stem the bleeding. 'Lay on Hands' was a very descriptive title for the ability, as it turned out. Isaviel blushed to remember how very red she had gone at the necessity. But even so, they had been forced to walk back to Neverwinter and her wound had not properly healed as a result, for Shandra's farm was somewhere between Highcliff and Neverwinter. They had been travelling for two days to get back to the city.

"Well lass, are ye' going to introduce us?" Duncan pressed, pulling back a chair for Shandra before joining them. Khelgar had gone to get a drink and Isaviel could sense Casavir's presence close behind her own chair. As if sensing her thoughts, Neeshka threw her a suspicious look from her own perch seated on the edge of the table.

"Ah, yes…this is Shandra. And Shandra, this is my uncle – Duncan," Isaviel introduced grudgingly at last.

"Please lass, sit, sit, make yerself at home. Sal! Fetch some drinks. This here is The Sunken Flagon – I own it. Ye look road weary and from the cuts and bruises I can see on the others it looks like ye met in conflict with…something. But ye'll be safe here. Er…Grobnar! Play a tune or something."

An unfamiliar figure turned almost with a look of alarm to face Duncan across the room, finally giving up on trying to coax a bored-looking Karnwyr with a piece of bread. He was much smaller than a Dwarf and not as rotund as a Halfling would have been expected to be, with a long, pointed nose and floppy blonde hair. He was in fact a Gnome, and since he was dressed in travelling leathers and carried a mandolin, Isaviel could only assume that he was a bard by vocation.

"Why, of course Master Duncan," Grobnar cried in a voice that lacked the childish tones of a Halfling as well, but at once held far more innocence, perhaps even naivety, "Why, I was just thinking…"

"Not everything that pops into yer head has t' come out of yer mouth, Gnome!" Duncan exclaimed with unexpected frustration.

"Well the innkeeper certainly seems to run hot and cold," Shandra noted dryly, taking a seat by the Moon Elf's side.

"Yes, he's very dangerous – you should stay out of arm's reach," Isaviel suggested, rolling her eyes.

"I know you're joking," Shandra laughed, "I'm glad you've got some humour left in your after all this. I really haven't. But now you've brought me all this way, to a city I thought I'd only ever see in passing, and I need answers. What were those creatures? And why were they after me?" her expression was beginning to show signs of panic.

"Shandra, please, we realise this is difficult, but your life may be in danger," Casavir explained gently, drawing up a chair to sit between her and Isaviel, "I swear to you that we are trying to protect you, not make more trouble for you."

"Oh…alright," Shandra sounded a little flustered, "Sorry. I suppose the whole thing's hard to take in at once."

"A little paladin charm sure calmed her quick," Neeshka whispered in Isaviel's ear while Casavir took to explaining the events leading up to that point, and what they considered the likely reasons.

"Indeed," Isaviel grinned up at the Tiefling, nodding towards Duncan, "She seems to have everybody riled up."

The Tiefling sniggered in response, seeing the half-elf barkeeper's on-going frustration with the unfamiliar Gnome.

"I wonder where he came from," Neeshka mused.

"Come in here 'bout two days ago," Sal answered unexpectedly, placing their usual drinks before them, "Been here before, briefly, around a year ago. This time spoke o' findin' some 'Wendersnaven' creatures. Totally mad if ye ask me. I told 'im that wolf won't eat bread, but he wouldn't listen. And Bishop won't tell him otherwise – he enjoys kicking the poor lad every time he gets too close."

"Let's hope he doesn't take too much of a fancy to that wolf then," Isaviel remarked, "It could swallow him whole."

While Neeshka laughed, Isaviel glanced over at Karnwyr, remembering the wolf's unexpected friendliness, and then to Bishop, thinking of how he had wrapped her in his cloak that night. The archer's dark eyes were already fixed upon her and when he had caught her eye he quirked an eyebrow at her, taking a draught from his tankard…

"Ah…lass," Sal's voice had her looking up at him, a little flustered now.

"Yes?"

"Elanee had me put some healing 'erbs in yer drink. She says that she can tell that wound's still givin' ye trouble."

"Oh, thank you," Isaviel smiled genuinely, gaining a pat on the shoulder from the steadfast barman, "Tell her I appreciate it."

"Will do."

Meanwhile, Casavir's tale was coming to an end and Shandra seemed somewhat dazed. She tried to hide the shaking of her hands by holding her tankard of ale and taking a large swig.

"So you're saying Ammon Jerro had a Silver Sword and not only are they after Isaviel for the shard but they – these Gith…Githyanki – want to find Haven to recover my grandfather's sword?"

"Yes, Shandra," Casavir nodded.

"But I don't understand why he would have a Silver Sword. It sounds a little…violent, especially since he would have had to have stolen it. My mother knew him, although I didn't. She said he was an eccentric but humble wizard, and he died a long time ago, when I still hadn't been born."

"What do you know about his Haven? Did your mother ever mention it?" Isaviel asked, trying to mask her urgency.

"It was just a tale my mother used to tell to make me to do my chores on time. Well, I thought it was," Shandra shrugged, "Still, I'm afraid you're out of luck. I don't' know where it is, and knowing its location wouldn't help much – my mother spoke of a path you needed to walk to get to it – a series of challenges. It also requires a pint of fresh Jerro blood. Wait…is that why you brought me here? So you could _bleed _me?"

"Oh, Lone Wolf, save me!" Isaviel groaned, standing quickly and stalking a few steps away, drinking the last of her ale and slamming the tankard down hard on a nearby table which had been newly vacated by patrons.

"That was not our intention, Shandra," Casavir promised quickly, holding the young woman's gaze while Duncan went to speak with Isaviel, "That is the first we have heard of such a requirement and if it were necessary we would not ask such a think of you."

"Honestly, if she carries on being so ungrateful, I'll be bleeding her for fun, and to the Abyss and all the Hells with Haven!" Isaviel hissed vehemently to her uncle, who looked a little shocked.

"Wow now lass," he chuckled uncomfortably, putting his hands on her shoulders and meeting her raging look with a steady gaze, "Not everyone's as good at accepting danger as you. And would you be any more trusting of a rabble like this one? What is it now – a Tiefling, a Dwarf brawler, a druid from Meredelain, a fire-crazed sorceress and a paladin? Not including yerself."

"Do you know anything more about Ammon Jerro? Anything that could help us find Haven?" Elanee was suggesting from her place, newly seated beside Casavir.

"Like I said, I never met him. My mother used to tell me how when she was a small child he would cradle her and sing to her and she would pull at his beard."

"Eh," Khelgar grunted, "Tell yer mother to keep her distance from me, lass."

"Excuse me," Grobnar put in, peering over the table, "But if Ammon Jerro was 'eccentric but humble' why would Haven be such a terrible place?"

"I- I never thought of it like that," Shandra smiled, looking relieved, but then sighed, starting to stand, "Look, I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone think. I really need rest…we can talk about this tomorrow."

"Perhaps we should all retire," Casavir nodded, "Shandra, I believe Duncan has some spare rooms upstairs."

"Oh, uh, thanks for the hospitality…uh…Casavir, right? I appreciate it," and Shandra's tanned cheeks flushed, her hand coming to her face to subconsciously brush back a strand of her blonde hair.

"Of course, you have been through a great deal. It is the least we can offer."

"That I can offer, he means. My inn, ye know," Duncan interrupted, rushing over to the accommodation door and opening it for Shandra, "Always eager to help a lass in distress we are, here at The Sunken Flagon. It's just up these stairs, I'll show you to ye room. If ye need anything, I'm down the hallway…" the half-elf's voice dwindled as he and Shandra ascended the stairs, Casavir in tow, and the rest of the group began to disperse as well.

"They really are flocking to her, aren't they?" Neeshka laughed as she and Isaviel moved over to the bar.

"Rather her than me," Isaviel pointed out as they waved Sal over and ordered more drinks.

"That's just it though," Neeshka said with a shake of her head, "You've got that paladin, all his righteousness and horrible aura, just desperate to look after you and guard you. You've got shadows in you. I've always felt it – when you do your shadow-dancing and when you don't. He's just dying to romance you, even if in his cold paladin heart he's convinced it's wrong."

"What's this about cold paladins' hearts? Planning a murder, I hope."

Isaviel turned to see Bishop standing behind them, and when her pale skin began to colour red from the embarrassment, she met his gaze with a furious glare. Neeshka inched away a little, hiding behind a long drink from her tankard – not out of any feelings of discretion, but rather for a better vantage point.

"Why were you not with us this morning?" Isaviel demanded, and the ranger's look hardened, his eyes taking in her appearance from head to toe and back again.

"I never said I would help you out on all of your pathetic little quests," he told her derisively, "I might have enjoyed hunting Orcs, but I don't much care for the Githyanki, thank you. I hear those ones could drag you off to their Lich Queen."

"I didn't take you for a coward."

"And I wish I didn't take you for such a sentimental fool," Bishop shot right back.

"You made me believe that you would be staying with us after the Orcs. You talked of such things with me on the ride back to Neverwinter from Old Owl…"

"Bloodlust is addictive, Elf," he told her darkly, leaning oh so very close as he took another flagon of ale from the bar. She shivered against him involuntarily, hearing those words and knowing that wasn't _all_ that he meant, remembering the feel of his hands as he had pulled his cloak about her shoulders.

When the ranger pulled back a little there was something of that unguarded look in his expression, as there had been in the cave near Old Owl Well. His look lingered now on the almost healed cut running vertically down her right cheek, the one the Orc had made in the mountains. That would scar. Then his eyes took in the new cut, the one made by Shandra's chamber pot of all things – it was not so deep and would soon fade, but he brought a rough thumb up to gently trace it anyway, following its curve towards her lower lip. When his eyes flickered up to meet hers they grew unreadable once more, but his touch remained.

"And where did you get this?" he asked, his voice low and only managing to get halfway to mockery, mimicking her words to him on those nights ago.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" she smirked, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Everything all in order, Duncan?" Sal's voice sounded _very_ loudly from behind Isaviel.

At the barman's rather unsubtle hint, the Moon Elf ducked away from the ranger, seeing her uncle returning, looking quite flustered from escorting Shandra to her room.

"Afraid of what your uncle might think of you, Elf?" Bishop growled, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her back to face him roughly.

"Maybe I'm just not interested enough in someone who abandons me when I most need _everyone_ just because they feel like a morning stroll with their dog? I have more than just a mangy wolf and blood_lustful_ ranger to think about, Bishop," Isaviel spat, and they both looked down at the dagger point she held against his side, "Not to mention that if you don't let go of me right now, your dog will be eating your entrails before you can even think about stopping me."

Bishop's response was somewhere between a snarl and a laugh, but he loosened his grip just enough for her to pull free. _That will bruise_. She hid her wince and wanted nothing more than to stab him in the back for that…

"Hey, the paladin doesn't seem so bad after all that, right?" Neeshka asked a little nervously, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder cautiously, and the Moon Elf turned to face her, eyes grown cold.

"It might prove fun to get past his defences," Isaviel shrugged, and when she saw Neeshka glance past her, she knew Bishop had come up short to throw a furious glare at her back.

The Tiefling snorted at the transparency of the pair's bickering and pulled her friend back to the bar, where Sal stood cleaning the table top, watching them both knowingly. Isaviel shared a smile with him and Neeshka, glad for their company. Of all of the people she had come upon in Neverwinter, in all of her life even, she had never met anyone else who did not judge her.

"I've had some developments in the Hideout that I've been meaning to tell you about," Neeshka said after a moment, "I've had Sand go through the wards with me – naturally didn't tell him what we intend to use the base for, and he didn't ask – and he's set up some new phrases and I've changed all the combinations on the vaults. Now only you and me know all of the codes – the ones we agreed on before we had to go and…acquire Shandra. It shouldn't be long before we can make it our real base, instead of staying here where everyone can see everything we do," the Tiefling added pointedly, then blushed a little, "And I've found the perfect coordinator for operations while we're away. He's an…old friend actually. I met him way back…just after I escaped fosterage with the priests of Helm. He taught me most of what I know. If he hadn't happened to be passing through Neverwinter's spy networks, I don't know what I would have done."

"Sounds like an interesting man," Isaviel prompted, but Neeshka's eyes only looked past her into the mid-distance, "A _very _interesting man?" she tried again, and this time the Tiefling managed a nod, then broke out of her thoughts and the pair shared a laugh.


	11. One Who Fell

Isaviel's dreams were unrelenting in their horror. The fires were hot all around her, and although they did no damage to _her_ she could see Neeshka…sometimes Daeghun or Duncan or Sand…screaming, trapped somehow. She could never help them, could only watch as their eyes rolled in their heads, crazed, terrible screams tearing from their lips as the fires blackened their skin and their bones and all that they were, flesh peeling back. The smell of burning bodies, of hair and skin and boiling blood… Sometimes this would shift, so that she was chained to a table or a wall, Githyanki all about holding daggers or shards of glass, stabbing her, stabbing her. This night she dreamed that Bishop was holding her still while one monster tore at the scar on her chest. Its nails were digging into her skin, clawing at her, burrowing through bone, and the agony was terrible, there was nothing she could do…

The Moon Elf woke with a scream, thrashing herself awake and sitting up, clutching at her chest, where sharp pain did still rage. She had collapsed to sleep on her bed still fully clothed in tunic and leggings, clutching her belt with its weapons and shards to her side. Pushing aside the neckline of her top, she saw that the area around her scar where it ran down the centre of her chest was red and inflamed. Hissing when even the slightest touch sent a jolt through her torso, the Moon Elf stood in her dark room, seeking to console herself with the familiar humming heat of the three shards in the pouches on her belt. Always they resonated when she touched them.

The fire was still smouldering in the hearth as she padded across the cool floorboards, giving it a wide birth after those dreams. The window just past it was generous both in height and breadth, affording a good view of the city walls towards Neverwinter Wood. Looking around the rim a little, she could make out the full moon, setting the world aglow with its silvery light, trailed by the twinkling Tears of Selune. Looking down at the belt in her hands with a sigh, she fastened it about her waist, not trusting herself to even let it go for a moment, and began the stretches Merring had taught her, closing her eyes and focusing on the stillness. Calm began to spread, too, and the pain started to ebb with it. An hour later, as the sun was starting to rise and spread the Docks District in the crisp, early light of dawn, she sat cross-legged on the woven rug by the cold fire, her hands lightly resting on her knees. Feelings were inconsequential, and sense was everything.

It was in this state that Isaviel _sensed_ it; the uneven footsteps on the floorboards overhead, and the ring of steel in the aftermath of a scuffle. Her eyes snapped open as she realised that the Githyanki were there, in The Sunken Flagon. Running footsteps and then sounds of battle were suddenly very close and the Moon Elf leapt to her feet as she heard Duncan's voice.

"Alarm! Alarm!" he sounded panicked.

She heard Neeshka swearing loudly, her door crashing open, and the Tiefling's steps were temporarily audible. Duncan's voice still rang out, and he had now started hammering on doors, telling people to grab any weapon they could – yes, the Giths were here.

"The Flagon is under attack!"

As if he needed to say that. The Moon Elf unsheathed a kukri and flung open her door…only for a dead Githyanki to collapse at her feet, gurgling, Duncan panting, wild-eyed behind it, hefting his greatsword which now dripped with thick yellow blood.

"You alright lass?" he asked urgently, "We need to get to the tavern hall. Sounds like the fighting's pretty bad back there," and he took up an awkward limping run which Isaviel easily overtook.

Duncan had been right, the tavern was the main focus of the battle. Once more caught out in his night attire, Sal was battering valiantly with a rolling pin at the few Githyanki that turned his way as he ran for the kitchen, managing to bar himself inside before any could follow. None tried too hard to pursue him, for their enemies' main focus was on the better armed adventurers. Neeshka snatched a glittering dagger from one foe's belt and laughed with delight when her new weapon easily cut through leather, flesh and bone, slicing the Githyanki clean in two, magical acid quickly eating up the corpse. It left little more than a red mess as a memory.

Casavir was fighting with Elanee's defensive spells to aid him, and he was the only member of the group who remained fully armed. It was as if he had never sought sleep. As for Qara, she appeared to be having the most fun of her life, raining down spells on her enemies and laughing almost madly as she did so.

"Take that! And that!" Grobnar cried, hacking at Githyanki legs to try to reach Khelgar, the most hard-pressed of the group, who had been caught out with no armour, just his tunic and trousers, and not even he could hold back the numbers thronging him.

Isaviel pounced, laying into the ring of Githyanki at the opposite side from Grobnar as Duncan joined them. The Moon Elf could feel the lightness flickering on and off through her body and she used her semi-invisibility – though unexpected this time – to her advantage. Dancing around her enemies, vanishing from their sight only to appear behind them and plunge a danger into their backs or sever limbs with a kukri, she found this battle oddly exhilarating where others had been fraught.

Soon every Githyanki lay dead, Duncan leaning on the bar as he tried to catch his breath.

"That lass, Shandra, has been taken" he panted as the others grouped around him, looking for answers, "How in the Hells did that many Githyanki get into the city?"

"Does that matter?" Bishop's voice cut in, coldly amused, and Isaviel turned to see him sneering at Duncan from the other side of the room before bending to brutally retrieve an arrow from a fallen Gith, "You'd best hurry if you want to get her back. And oh, look, this one has a sprig of Duskwood trapped in his boot," he turned to face them all now, scowling darkly, his voice just a growl, "That means they came from deep within Luskan territory…and that's where they'll be returning to."

"Luskan," Duncan spat, "That's _your_ territory, Bishop."

"Yes, but it's not _my _problem. I'm not going into Luskan for some farm girl, and certainly not with any 'kin' of yours Duncan."

"Oh, really?" Isaviel looked to Duncan, feeling the sting Bishop had intended those words to have as acutely as she knew he'd hoped, and absolutely determined he would only see her anger instead, "You say he's the only one who can get us on the right trail."

"Aye, lass, but…"

"Alright then, ranger, how about in exchange for your worthless hide?" she hissed. But Bishop just laughed, glancing disdainfully at her kukris and daggers.

"Is that what passes for a threat from a Harbourman? Ha! I'd have you pinned to that wall…a nice new trophy for dear Uncle Duncan before you could even take two strides."

"Who said you'd even hit me?" Isaviel snarled.

"Is your whole family deaf, Duncan?" Bishop jeered, "Like I said: not my problem."

"You're helping us whether you like it or not, Bishop," Duncan growled, and the ranger lowered his bow to glare at the half Elf.

"And what makes you think…" he snarled, only for his gaze to be met by a cold stare from Duncan, and he laughed with understanding, "Calling it due, are you Duncan? Are you sure?" he mocked as he approached, kicking a charred Githyanki corpse out of his way as he did so.

"A woman's life is at stake, Bishop. If that's what it takes to make you do the right thing, then so be it," Duncan answered instantly.

"Fine," Bishop said stiffly, "It will be a small price to pay to be rid of you. You're a fool, Duncan."

"So be it," the barkeeper repeated firmly, and Bishop sighed dramatically, turning to the others.

"Alright," the ranger growled, "Pack your bags and grab your weapons. We're bound for the Luskan border. Follow my lead and don't try anything stupid," he levelled his gaze pointedly at Isaviel, who glared back – which only seemed to make him smirk, "If the Luskans catch us they will use us for target practice. And I know who I am standing behind when they try."

"Fine. Let's go everyone," Isaviel nodded to the group before turning back to Bishop, "Just try to remember that I give the orders around here, will you?"

* * *

A little more than a day's hard travel north, roughly parallel with the High Road, saw Bishop leading the group east, up towards the other side of the mighty Crags and over the Luskan border. He insisted that they stay off the path generally, but the others were not so quick to listen to him as they had been to Isaviel – something which she was greatly relieved to witness. Qara (and probably Neeshka, too) wanted to sleep in a bed for a night, Khelgar wanted a tavern brawl or some ale…or both. Grobnar had insisted on coming along, as well, and it had turned out on their first evening that for all of his apparent innocence he was a far better shot with the bow than Isaviel, successfully felling a deer.

So it was that once they were clear of the shelter of the south side of the Crags, walking right across the face of the howling northern wind, their path up into the foothills was met by a small town. It was built on the edge of a cliff with a steep, twisting path leading up from the High Road where the eerie still darkness of the Duskwood began. They had reached a high vantage point, with the woods around them marking a curve up into the hills leading to the Crags. Below them, to the west, she could see the distant twinkle of the Sword Coast and its Sea of Swords. Over in that direction Isaviel could just about make out the greyish shape of a town, maybe the ghostly sail of a ship. Somewhere further to the north lay Luskan, the City of Sails, and its massive docked fleet which gave it such a name. Beyond that the perpetual snows began, those icy winds they were feeling came roaring down over The Spine of the World and the closest settlements were disparate and small; Nesme, Silverymoon, Mirabar. Beyond that, to the west, lay Icewind Dale and its Ten Towns.

Shivering in the cold, Isaviel turned away from the vantage point to see the others just reaching the border of the town, and quickened her pace to reach the sign as they did. Nailed to a tree, it proclaimed 'Ember'.

"Strange name for a very flammable village if you ask me," Neeshka noted uneasily.

"Now that would be satisfying," Qara smirked, flexing her fingers.

Bishop sent her a strange look – one of incredulous amusement that somehow still bordered on rage. There was always fury blazing in his eyes, desperate to be let loose – especially now Duncan had called him up on that debt, whatever that meant. He spoke little in front of the larger group of travellers, always sitting apart from them when they rested - even if that meant he could not have the warmth of the fire – with only Karnwyr for company. The wolf, however, had proved less fickle and was increasingly permitted to wander between Isaviel, Elanee and its master.

"Hold on," Bishop sighed, taking Isaviel by the arm, "Something isn't right," and the others came to a clanking stop behind them.

The ranger guided the Moon Elf closer to the mouth of the road, staying under the cover of the trees thinning to this point, and they stopped on the border of the woods. The town was utterly deserted, all but silent save for the whistling winds. Doors were shut tightly, shutters closed resolutely. Nothing moved. Nothing seemed to _live_. Even the birds had stopped singing.

"You're right," Isaviel hissed, and he nodded, looking a little surprised, "There are no villagers."

"Now you're learning, good. Keep listening to me and you might stay alive," he smirked – did Isaviel detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice? "But it's not just the villagers," he continued, pointing towards the empty pens, "Where are all the livestock? They didn't take them all to market, trust me," he straightened up, easily looking over her head, "We're on the trail of our friends, though. They're moving fast but it seems we've closed in a bit."

Isaviel shook her head now, feeling a little dread creeping in.

"The trail has been too obvious. It's all too easy."

Again, that surprised look, and now the hint of a smile.

"Just what I was thinking. Seems you really do know your way around the wilderness…" an almost honest grin flickered across his face, "I wonder how you and Duncan could possibly be related," he mocked softly.

Isaviel felt the rough warmth of his hand brush against her back as he stepped back to let her pass, heading back to the others.

"Keep your eyes open and your weapons handy. I smell an ambush," he warned, pulling his bow free and notching an arrow, "Wouldn't want that pretty head of yours to hit the ground before it's due, eh?"

Isaviel glanced back at him and grinned when his eyes watched her long midnight-blue curls tumbling down her back in a loose ponytail before his gaze wove its way back to her face. He regarded her with a fierce, dark look for what felt like several long seconds before growling and turning away, whistling for Karnwyr. Right, Isaviel reminded herself as they went to warn the others, they had a probable ambush to deal with – and Shandra to save.

An arrow whistled through the air to land, quivering, just inches in front of her, buried deep into the earth. Alright, make that a definite ambush, she thought as the others formed up about her, calling curses. More arrows came, and Isaviel had time to just make out over a score of Githyanki materialising out of the woods around the town before Casavir's shield came rushing in front of her, one heavy plate-clad arm crushing her back against him. Three distinct thuds sounding against the barrier immediately afterwards as arrows intended for her peppered that shield. She had felt the impact of each one, jarring them both.

"Thanks," she admitted as he released her, and somehow he found time to incline his head to her before dodging a few more projectiles – and one of Qara's fireballs as it went crackling through the air to scatter Gith at its landing.

Isaviel dived for the cover of the trees as she saw Casavir and Khelgar rushing into the open ground of the town, Grobnar having the sense to shelter behind a rock to shoots his arrows. Qara was wreathed in flame, eyes glowing just that little bit too madly. She for one was certainly enjoying herself. Elanee had armoured herself in conjured bark and had joined the two warriors, showing surprising dexterity with her wicked double-edged sickle. But she looked vulnerable nonetheless, and Isaviel could see that consideration was hindering Casavir's accuracy. They were hard put upon, even as Bishop and Grobnar continued to systematically take out the archers who crouched poised on roofs with their own arrows. Luckily for Isaviel, her companions proved better shots and harder targets.

As the Moon Elf finally understood the real threat at work there, a Githyanki mage deep in concentration on the far side of this main section of the town, she threw herself into a run, dodging behind the backs of houses as she came clear of the woods. Her louder, more immediately brutal friends were keeping all of the focus out in the open, though she had spied Neeshka joining the battle from the shadows and smiled to herself. In that short time they had come closer to significantly evening the odds.

Isaviel's path was swift, and those foes who lingered in her path soon fell to her blades, caught unawares as she materialised from shadow to deal death. As she went she finally began to notice pale, frightened villagers' faces staring at her through the back windows. It sickened her to think of how hard the people of West Harbour had fought, and how afraid and impotent these people were. There were no signs of a struggle, and she felt wilfully betrayed.

For the moment, the Moon Elf shrugged aside her anger, knowing that it would not help her like it did Khelgar or Qara. She had recognised the real threat, for power was building in a shimmering wall around that Githyanki wizard and she could not risk his magic being unleashed on her friends.

"Hey! Aren't I the Kalach-Cha? Isn't it me you want?" Isaviel cried as she turned the corner around one house and threw herself towards the wizard, giving him pause enough for his barrier to fail, just in time for her to barrel into him and utterly ruin his spell.

Under her slight weight, and despite her speed, the wizard barely staggered, but the impact had been enough for her to bury her kukris deep within his gut. Weapons certainly not intended for such an attack. She did not linger on the gory details as his eyes went wide in horror and pain, for she heard the high hiss of an approaching arrow behind her and ducked just in time, allowing the projectile to pass over her, into the Githyanki's chest. As he crumpled to the ground, the built up energies of his spell, perhaps some fire invocation, backfired, its energy playing out over his skin as yellow phantom flames.

Isaviel watched in amazement as the hilts of her kukris sparked with power, the magical energy being visibly sucked into the blades in a rapid out-pouring. Gingerly, hearing the sounds of battle decreased significantly behind her, she pulled free her weapons and marvelled at the change in them. They were warm to the touch, their blades shining brightly once she had wiped them clean, a strange yellow sheen remaining in the sunlight. Tiny sparks formed in the air around them as she performed an experimental swipe…right into the body of another Githyanki who had thought his prey distracted. Screaming, he had no time to observe his charred wounds before he too died.

"Ha. That was fun," Khelgar grinned as the group gradually began to gather by Isaviel, the last of the Giths slain. She quickly sheathed her kukris when she saw the Dwarf eyeing them with new distrust.

A swift survey of the group told Isaviel that no one was injured, fortunately. Somehow Grobnar had ended up covered in mud and Khelgar had gained a black eye, but that seemed the worst of it.

"Yeah, that was fun," Qara declared, "Like target practice but with real targets."

"We must not forget we are out here to save a life, not for sport," Casavir interjected as Bishop brushed past him to reach Isaviel's side.

"They left a large force here," the ranger noted with a frown, looking at the fallen monsters scattered all about.

"…which means we'll face less of them later," Isaviel added for him, and this time his answering smile, though hard, was genuine.

"Exactly. As long as we catch them before they go to ground and there is a 'later'," Bishop added.

"Something's tellin' me that won't be a problem, since they seem to be wantin' Isaviel here dead as surely as they wanted to capture Shandra," Khelgar pointed out.

"Still, there are less of them now, which means they'll travel faster and could become harder to track," Bishop warned, "We'll need to work twice as hard now to catch up with your precious farm girl." He sneered pointedly at Casavir, "And that means no hope of staying the night in this wretched place. What a shame."

"Well, I'll be glad if we don't have to deal with another fight like that one," Neeshka put in, wincing as Elanee applied a bandage to her leg. So, not all unscathed then.

"A little difficult, but we handled it," Bishop shrugged, "More than could be said for the villagers here, giving up their home to the enemy. Surprised those Gith left them alive…it's more mercy than I would have shown them."

As the ranger spoke, the doors of the houses began to open, locals leading pigs and goats out from their own houses to replace them in their pens. Shutters began to swing wide, and people seemed to be preferring to ignore the dead monsters on the ground. Casavir and Elanee began to move among them, offering comfort to those frightened by the attacks and removing the horrific corpses. Isaviel watched it all in silence for a moment, seeing Khelgar joining the clean-up effort as well now, but all she could imagine was West Harbour, how the people had fought and still burned, how they had returned and begun to rebuild, by all accounts. She felt angry, and guilty. How could she have saved this town, and not her own when her own had fought so hard and this one had not?

"Gods," she spat, turning away from it, from Neeshka's understanding eyes, from Qara's gloating, "If the people of West Harbour had behaved this way…they fought and they died trying to defend themselves when they had to. These people did not…how do they live on when they just stood by? They would have rather we died. A little help from some of those pitchfork wielding fools and we could have repelled them easily."

Bishop nodded, but his eyes stayed on her face a moment longer, as if he saw through her anger. He was quick to hide his understanding with brutal words of his own, however.

"How important can something be if you won't fight for it? They all deserved to die for that," he agreed, then raised his voice so the others could here, "Alright, let's head out. Forget the unsightly dead, these pathetic townsfolk should learn how to deal with that which they cause. We've a lot of ground to cover, and…"

"Forgive me," a high, nervous voice interrupted as a young, blonde woman stepped forward, having to lift her skits to uncomfortably step over a dead Githyanki in her path, "You are…are you hunting a woman named Shandra Jerro?"

"We are, and the longer we stand here talking to you, the further she gets," Isaviel snapped, moving as if to pass her by, but the woman put a gentle hand on her arm and the Moon Elf's hands reflexively went to her weapons.

"Wait," the woman flinched, backing up, "Those creatures…we heard her screaming as they carried her off. I did not recognise her at first, but she makes a merchant run through Port Llast and Ember every Harvest Season and had not been through here yet this year."

"You give us hope, young lady," Casavir's deep voice resonated with gratitude and soothing calm that Isaviel could never have even considered giving. It made her feel sick…and guilty.

"Oh, forgive me…I am Alaine," the young woman, perhaps in her late teens now Isaviel looked more closely, blushed a little at the paladin's words, or maybe just his presence, "Please, I saw those beasts taking her to the mountains to the north and east. They have barely an hour on you but were moving fast. And thank you for saving us from the creatures, I can't th-"

"Oh, don't thank us," Bishop snarled, "You deserve to die here for surrendering to the Gith. Now, can we go without more mewling dogs getting in our way? Every moment we wait the trail grows colder."

As they resumed their walk to the end of the town it seemed Bishop's wish was not to come true, for a boy, perhaps in his early teens stepped out before them. From that distance his blue eyes seemed almost purple, his voice oddly calm as he pointed at Isaviel and spoke a proclamation.

"You. You are the one who will destroy Ember."

"What?" Isaviel stopped in her tracks, "Why would I do that?"

"That boy's got a lot of power streaming off him," Qara whispered in Isaviel's ear, "I almost can't see him he's burning so brightly…it's blurring the air around him."

"Wait…no…" the boy mumbled, "I was mistaken. Strange. The killer looks like you but is not you. Regardless, Ember cannot be saved – all within will perish when the time comes. Except one: me. You are carrying something that will help me survive but you cannot aid me in any other way."

"Is this some game? Because if it is, we've not patience – or time – for it," Isaviel warned.

"No," the boy said firmly, "Ember's fate is set in stone, but mine is not. However, I will share Ember's fate unless you help me."

"Very well," Isaviel approached him warily. There was something in his manner…he seemed too old for his age, too certain. And she could feel the magic on him, too – it filled her with a creeping dread.

The boy shook his head, pointing towards Bishop instead.

"Him. He carries something that will save me."

"Try to take anything and I'll have both your hands as trophies, got it?" Bishop told him coldly, but the boy approached him anyway.

Behind the ranger, Neeshka made a disgusted sound and stalked past them, soon followed by Qara. Elanee was quick to take that path as well, happier in the wilds beyond, with Grobnar in tow.

"Your knife," the boy was saying, and suddenly he was holding up a small, curved blade, "It can save me."

"My…"

"Just give him the knife," Isaviel groaned, "You have _so many_ others."

"No," the ranger refused flatly, turning to face her angrily, "Not unless it's going between his – or maybe _your – _eyes."

"Please, we haven't much time to waste, remember?" Isaviel told him quietly, coming to his side and putting a hand on his arm, feeling him tense drastically, "Keep travelling with me and I'll make sure you're rewarded ten times over," she promised the ranger, nodding to the boy who turned and ran back the way he had come.

"That so?" the ranger smirked, hardly seeming to notice the child leave, his dark eyes locked in a long stare with Isaviel's golden ones, "I won't forget that promise," he whispered, one hand running slowly through her unusual hair, then bunching it unexpectedly in his fist, "Or how much you owe me," he added in growl, releasing her violently, and turning away.

The sound of her laughter mocking him as he walked enraged him for its beauty.

* * *

Every step up the winding path deeper in to the mountains had been increasingly difficult for Isaviel. Not only did she have to contend with waves of pain from her scar but there was something new. A recognition of a presence, and tingling in her fingertips the she did not trust. It had nothing to do with the icy wind, or the threat of snow. Not even to do with how much Qara's indignation over such weather at Harvest Season annoyed her.

Her troubles only increased when she caught up with Neeshka and Bishop, standing by a small cave mouth as they were. The others were a short way behind, led by Elanee. They were typically struggling with their armour or lack of motivation in such difficult terrain, but Isaviel could see on Neeshka's face that her own lagging had worried the Tiefling. The Moon Elf had never been anything other than first in all of their expeditions.

"Your demonic friend had a little look around just before you got here," Bishop informed as she approached, and from the frown on his face she could tell that whatever the Tiefling had found, it was not good.

"It's looking pretty bad in there, Isaviel," Neeshka nodded, finally turning to face her friend, having been staring intently into the moss-framed tunnel beyond.

"What's wrong?" the Moon Elf demanded, crouching by the entrance to better look at the thin stream of liquid trailing from within. It did not take long for her to recognise the thick, yellow blood of the Githyanki, "Something's killing the Giths?"

She looked up at Neeshka in confusion to see her friend nodding again as the others arrived loudly behind her. The pass was narrow – she could hear Khelgar and Casavir's armoured frames scraping horribly against the bare rock.

"Yep. And whatever it is, I'd say it's worse than them, too. Just the air's making my skin crawl," Neeshka looked genuinely disconcerted, and when she turned back into the shadow Isaviel saw that her eyes were glowing deep red in the darkness.

"Devils, then," Isaviel understood instantly, "There are devils in there." She did not understand how she knew with such certainty, despite Neeshka's words, "There are demons, too."

"Don't tell me the Blood Wars have spilled over into our plane," Bishop hissed, and Neeshka's confused frown answered 'no'.

"They seem to be working together. And when we get out of this, you've got to explain to me how you knew they were there at all, Isaviel," Neeshka added.

"I wish I could," the Moon Elf sighed, glancing back at the others before approaching the tunnel, "Qara, I think we'll be needing some light. Whatever's in there will be able to see us either way – but I know most of us don't have that luxury."

"Oh, great. Menial labour," Qara flounced as the others presented torches to be lit, as provided by Khelgar – necessities for herself, Casavir, Bishop, Grobnar and, in utter darkness, Elanee, "I could have stayed at The Sunken Flagon."

The moment she stepped in to the darkness Isaviel felt something was wrong, her skin seemed to flare up momentarily and she let out an involuntary cry, recoiling back against Bishop, who cursed under his breath, but steadied her quickly with hands on her waist. Quickly she joined Neeshka in the more open space beyond the damp initial tunnel.

"Nice moves," the Tiefling sniggered at her friend, apparently believing she had simply lost her footing, then stopped abruptly, doing a double take, "Hey! You're eyes look funny…they're glowing silver, not red. They normally glow red in the dark, right?"

They did, it was true. She was not seeing in the infrared spectrum either, as would have been normal for a race with darkvision – which she technically was not known to be descended from, anyway. Now Neeshka's features were apparent in as much detail as if they had been in bright sunlight. Except everything was tinged in shades of blue…

"Gods!" the Moon Elf felt suddenly sick, listening to the others following, "What's happening to me?"

"Hey," Neeshka patted her shoulder awkwardly, watching an apathetic Bishop stalk past them, brandishing a torch, "Let's just focus on staying alive for now, ok?"

"Of course. You're right," Isaviel nodded firmly, "Let's go."

She was about to overtake the ranger, seeing that this cavern was void of life, save for some sparse glowing lichen, but Bishop put an arm out, stopping her. She had started to angrily push past when she saw his tense expression, eyes fixed on the gory scene half-lit beyond. Along the tunnel ahead lay strewn the bodies of several Githyanki, limbs torn off, bodies ripped open. Neeshka stood near them, looking even more uncomfortable than Bishop. Isaviel found herself gripping his restraining forearm, her nails digging into his bracer.

"By all the gods!" Khelgar cried, his loud voice echoing substantially and making the three scouts cringe.

"A terrible evil did this, one that must be stopped," Casavir put in.

Glancing around in irritation, Isaviel signalled for silence, something Grobnar did not instantly comprehend and continued a strangely tuneless humming until Isaviel's gaze met his. Turning back, she saw Neeshka just disappearing around the corner, Bishop following with Karnwyr in tow. His torch had been discarded at Isaviel's feet and she wondered how he could see with only the Underdark mushrooms and lichen as aids.

Signalling for the others to follow, with Casavir taking up the rear, Isaviel half-ran, on silent feet, dodging into the deepest darkness with every chance she got. To those behind her she was all but invisible; just a breath of air. Their path continued uncontested for a short but significant while as the branching tunnels took them ever deeper. It soon became clear that despite their labyrinthine nature, this set of caves did eventually lead to the same point. With every step her scar ached more, as if something was tugging strongly at her insides.

The way was littered with many more dead Githyanki, the pungent smell of their blood soon becoming all too familiar. Only as the ground began to level out again, the glowing fungi became more numerous – as they neared the Underdark, most likely – and helped greatly to light the way. Their torches could be put out and for the first time the eerie silence lifted, replaced by a distant, chorus of sultry laughter. At the sound Isaviel felt an unexpected anger well inside her, skin prickling.

"Oh my, look at this," Bishop whispered.

The ranger nodded towards three fallen Gith, all surrounding a fourth dead being. This one was almost human in appearance, a half-naked woman with icy white skin and large leathery wings splayed, tattered, beneath her still form. A Githyanki blade was still embedded in her heart.

"Hey guys?" Neeshka approached the two at the head of the group, "Maybe you should come and see this. You might want to keep the others close. This could get nasty."

Feeling her discomfort growing with every step, Isaviel joined Neeshka in silent observation of a more neatly hewn cavern below them, paved and tiled with carefully cut, polished stone. The way down was steep, descending into impenetrable darkness for human eyes. Isaviel could see steps cut into the rock beside them, curving steadily down, the ceiling of the vast cavern in places barely four feet above the top of the staircase.

At the centre of the cavern glowed a ring of deeply cut red runes, distorted by a shallow mote of water writhing above them. It took Isaviel a moment to correct this observation – the cavern floor was in fact an underground lake, not shallow at all, with small islands and walkways of carved rock dotted across it like stepping stones.

Two more female figures, Demons with sharp red talons on bare feet and hands, fiery hair and crimson serrated wings stood in the largest of these islands in front of the glowing ring.

"Succubi," Neeshka hissed, an unguarded look of pain crossing her face, "Glad I didn't inherit those wings."

"Well…that's quite something," Qara knelt beside the two, as if drawn to the power below them, "Can you _see _him? His power's lighting up this whole place. What is he?"

"Who?" Isaviel asked confusedly and received two equally incredulous stares.

"Can't you see him? The Devil, in the circle?" Neeshka asked.

Only then did Isaviel realise she could indeed see the one they spoke of, but for some subconscious reason she had avoided looking to him. The Devil, as Neeshka had proclaimed him, did indeed stand at the very centre of the circle, watching the succubi in front of him with a calm, unreadable air.

He was achingly beautiful, his skin fairly glowing with a bluish hue, long, glassy hair drawn back with fine jewelled golden chains, refracting the reddish light from the runes without taking in any of its colour. He was tall and powerfully built, dressed in a black tunic, its loose silver lacing matching his woven belt. Runes of this same colour adorned his midnight blue boots, with trousers to match. This 'devil' looked more celestial to Isaviel…until she saw his vast black-feathered wings, tinted with a deep crimson and lacking any lustre they once had. His eyes were rimmed with sharp red lashes, pupils large and vertical, irises glowing a harsh yellow. She caught her breath. He was looking at _her_.

"Ah, Sister, look at this one," one of the succubi was saying languidly, every sound, every breath, every motion intended to seduce.

"Such a handsome Devil…trapped here at our mercy," the other added pointedly.

"Won't you even look at us, Devil?" the first succubus asked, her voice dripping with sarcastic hurt.

"Well, even if he is immune to our advances, Sister, I wonder if he is immune to pain!" her counterpart cackled, her talon visibly cutting deep into the pale skin of his chest, drawing forth a glistening, silvery liquid which Isaviel could only assume to be blood. The Devil did not even flinch.

The Moon Elf turned around to her other waiting companions, signalling for them to attack the succubi. Khelgar had already begun a loud charge before she could advise him otherwise, Casavir close behind him, aglow with Tyr's might. Bishop knelt beside her as Qara backed up to send down fire upon their new foes. Karnwyr seemed unsure of what to do, a creature of the outdoors faced with a terrain it was not comfortable in. Watching Qara's spells raining down about the two female Demons, boiling water and sending stream hissing into the air – doing little damage to the actual succubi, Isaviel was glad the wolf had not joined the melee.

"Qara, stop!" Elanee cried as the two fighters reached the scene, reeling back from the heat.

"I don't follow…" the girl began but Isaviel stood quickly, looking to the sorceress with a cold stare.

"She is right, Qara. You're not helping us, you're helping the demons. So unless you wish to be dragged to the Abyss to join the Blood Wars, I suggest you listen to her."

"Thank you," Elanee smiled, a little surprised by the Moon Elf's support.

But Isaviel waved the words aside, turning back around to see the succubi cackling gleefully among red hot stones, flitting through the air on powerful wings to bat at Casavir and Khelgar and retreat before the fighters could retaliate. Neeshka was also on the cavern floor, not joining the fight but stalking through the shadows around the trapped Devil, her eyes glowing an eerie red.

"Aim for the wings first," she whispered to Bishop as he drew back an arrow. In a rare moment of honesty he nodded quickly and did just that.

First one, and then the other, succubus tumbled shrieking to the rocky stepping stones, wings torn and pierced. Taking this as her cue, Isaviel vaulted over the edge of the high outcropping, nimbly making a quick descent to the rocks below, finally able to see that the water was indeed much deeper than expected.

The closest succubus turned to her while the other faced the two fighters' relentless assaults. Isaviel barely had time to dodge out of the way, drawing her kukris and almost losing her footing on the slippery stone.

"My, are you beautiful," the succubus smiled slowly, black eyes glittering horribly in Elanee's summoned light, "Or…you would have been, were it not for that scar!" She snapped out a hand, her arm much longer than a human's.

Isaviel felt an awful burning sensation on her skin as the succubus's talon travelled down her neck…and then she struck. The Moon Elf found herself smiling as her kukri bit all the way through the Demon's finger, the digit dropping into the water with an odd hissing sound. Inspired anew, she met the succubus's fearful look with a knowing one of her own…as two arrows pinned one tattered wing to the Demon's shoulder, only lengthening her agonised screams.

The Moon Elf simply dodged aside when her foe leapt for her next, knowing the largest unbroken area of water lay behind her. She was not expecting the succubus's talons to catch on her clothes, tearing the side of her tunic and dragging her back to land with a unified splash in the cold water. The unexpected iciness paralysed her body as the succubus writhed and thrashed to escape the liquid, Demonic skin bubbling and peeling away, bone corroding…

Isaviel shut her eyes tightly and finally tried to swim up for air, kicking away from the dying creature beneath her. Her lungs burned for air, her whole body was already numb with cold. Her head broke the water as her feet continued to kick wildly at the disintegrating body below. Isaviel found to her panic that her numbed hands could find no purchase on the slippery stone and several times she fell back in…until a strong hand hooked under her arm, pulling her up easily.

As she fell forward against a kneeling man, she had expected the one who aided her to be Casavir, but blinking water from her eyes, already shivering and gasping for breath, she found her eyes met Bishop's. Beyond him she could see the others dropping the other succubus, now, dead, into the water as well, and wondered which among them had known that it would dissolve. Meanwhile, Bishop's arm had slipped to her waist, the other instinctively rubbing at her other arm as she shivered so violently against him. She was so busy coveting his warmth in that moment that she hardly noticed the way he lingered, until his hand came up to brush her wet hair from her face, remaining there with the intention of drawing her to him.

"You wait too much for one of your kind," she told him with a smirk, "And you choose your times so badly."

She pulled herself back to her feet, trying to hide how much she was shivering, and turned away from his glare as Elanee rushed over to her, wrapping her cloaks around her shoulders. The Moon Elf smiled her thanks, relieved to discover the shards were all still with her as the others came closer. But as if pulled by a thought, she turned about and saw the Devil, still standing calmly at the centre of the cavern, a slight smile on his lips. And his eyes, terrifying as they were, had settled once more upon her.

"I must thank you for your…timely arrival," the terrible, beautiful creature remarked, his voice low and calm, echoing at the beginning of every word with a deep hum of power. Somehow he sounded familiar…but how could that be?

"We do not need your thanks, Devil," Casavir cut in, his voice as angry as Isaviel had ever known it, "Tell us how to reach the one we seek and I will grant you a swift death."

"Perhaps we should be a little more cautious, Sir Paladin?" Grobnar suggested, his voice high and nervous, "It is said that the Devils with feathered wings are those who Fell with Asmodeus, Lord of the Ninth Hell, even before Toril had been created millennia ago."

_What does that make me, then?_ Isaviel wondered, subconsciously flexing her shoulders where the thick, jagged scars lay, the places that her own feathered wings had grown. Avariel, and nothing to fear? Or a Fallen Devil's daughter? If not…what else was there?

"His essence is at once perfect and rotten," Elanee sounded a little faint, "That explains it. But Isaviel, be careful," she added at a whisper, "Everything he does will seek to entrap you."

"Oh, the druidess speaks truth, Wild One," the Devil smiled slowly, showing two red-tipped fangs among otherwise perfect white teeth.

"You know the way through," Isaviel stated, hopping to the walkway leading to him and approaching as steadily as she could, trying not to shiver, and wondering how she was going to keep a level head when this creature before her was so overpowering. His lips twitched at her words and he bowed.

"Yes," he admitted as he stood straight, "But I can tell you nothing when a half-blood Demon seeks to drive a blade through my heart," he turned to face Neeshka and the hum of his voice grew briefly to a roar as he spoke one word, ringing with power: "Stop," and she froze in place.

"I've no time for your tricks," Isaviel shivered when the Devil turned back to face her. He laughed genuinely.

"But of course. You are wise, Beautiful One," and to her surprise he raised a perfect hand and touched one fingertip under her chin. An uncomfortable, conjured heat spread through her limbs, dispelling the cold that the water had brought and making her cringe, though she found she could not pull away. Only then did she realise that her feet had stopped just before the runes, half of her body effectively in the circle.

"And my, my, you are _so _beautiful," he smiled.

She felt a fire growing in her scar, blood rushing in her ears…and snatched his hand away, only to have her fingers caught in his and kissed with hot lips that left a burning mark. She would have cried out in pain if that contact had not sent the message it did into her mind. A message of seduction and dark power.

Isaviel's eyes rolled back into her head and she swayed on her feet, dimly away of her friends calling out to her in alarm…but the feeling of her mind disconnecting itself from reason was too much, and she forced herself back to reality, yanking herself free.

"Enough," she told him firmly, "Tell us how to get to our…friend," she demanded.

"Very well," the Devil seemed amused, "My master was killed by the Githyanki and so my bonds passed to their control. They have summoned this water from below to block the path to your captured friend…and of course to themselves. My presence here is maintaining the summoning, and if I were to be banished to my native Hell you would be able to pass more easily."

"And more succubi could follow us," Bishop snarled, but the Devil shook his head.

"You killed the last of them. With my master dead, there will be no more of my kind, or of the Demons…excepting that one, of course," he gestured behind him to the still frozen Neeshka.

"Well…" Isaviel shrugged, "I'm sure you're lying about quite a bit, but I don't think we have any options."

"You are wise, truly, Isaviel Farlong," the Devil smiled, acceding her point with a tip of his head, and ignoring her shock that he knew her name, "But before I give you the use of my true name, in order to give you power to banish me, I must have your promise that you will only use it once, and that you will only use it to banish me to my native Hell and nothing more."

"I promise," Isaviel flinched, half-expecting some kind of geas to attach to her soul.

"Good," the Devil smiled, "My kind are bound by laws, Beautiful One, and so with your promise, meant or not, you may only command me as I expect. My true name is Mephasm."

"Alright," Isaviel sighed, "Mephasm, I hereby banish you from this, the Prime Material Plane, to your native Hell." She wondered how she had known what to say.

With those words, the red runes faded to nothing between them and a great column of flame erupted beneath Mephasm, who remained untouched by the force, his vast wings opening out to flap slowly, keeping him from descending into the large, rippling hole in the earth to the scarred red land of the flat, barren Hell below.

"Thank you, Wild One. But know that whatever you learn beyond here will bear no comparison to your coming fate. Its chaos shall threaten us all. Farewell, for now…but we shall meet again, soon I think," his eyes surveyed her unashamedly, a smirk crossing his face, "You hold such deep mysteries in your blood, Fair One," his lips twitched, "Your father must have been of most...unusual…lineage. And they must have cut your wings off when you were very young."

"My father? And how do you know about my wings?" Isaviel whispered, heart lurching.

Mephasm smiled broadly, saying no more, and held her gaze as he swiftly angled his flight to dive through the portal below him, which closed with a vast roar following his passing. As soon as he was gone, Neeshka collapsed, gasping, to the ground, but waved away any help. All around the scattered group the water began to drain out of the cavern, revealing a winding passageway between the 'islands' on which they stood. There was now a broad opening beyond, from which came a low hum and an emanation of pale blue light.

With a resolute growl, Khelgar seemed to simply roll from his place to land with amazing ease on the tunnel floor, Karnwyr at least padding down the steps to come near him. Elanee soon followed him, displaying amazing agility previously unknown in her descent while Casavir and Grobnar prudently returned to the steps to follow a safer path. Qara continued to sneer down at the few inches of water remaining, while the others called for the four still above to follow quickly.

"What's the problem, little princess?" Bishop asked sarcastically to the sorceress as Neeshka nimbly descended, "Afraid to get those highborn ankles of yours wet? Afraid it might put your fires out?"

"Unlike some, I do not like to freeze in water," the sorceress shot back, nodding towards Isaviel.

"Well, there's nothing else for it. Paladin! Do your duty and catch the little wench," Bishop called down, and without further warning her pushing Qara over the edge. From the clank of armour and the sorceress's furiously shrieked insults, Isaviel assumed Casavir had indeed done his duty.

Isaviel was about to follow when Bishop caught her arm and pulled her back to him, where they were out of sight of those waiting below.

"You'd better survive this," he told her fiercely, "So I can stop waiting."

"Oh, Bishop," she smirked, pretending to flutter her eyelashes up at him, "I'm already done waiting," and with no more warning she pulled him down to her, pressing her lips to his hard and instantly feeling him respond with urgent kisses of his own. It only lasted moments, hardly even long enough for those below to begin to suspect anything, and they broke apart, gasping.

"Alright. Let's kill Giths," Bishop growled.


	12. A Mist of Blood

**Hello readers! Reviews would be most welcome, and I'd welcome constructive criticism as well as praise ;) - it would be nice to know what I'm doing wrong/right here...**

* * *

"Oh, _great_," Isaviel groaned, "Just what I always wanted."

As soon as the companions had crossed through from the cavern a wall of flame had erupted behind them, stopping any retreat. This new, neatly panelled room bristled with about a score of Githyanki, armed in spiked leathers and vicious fury. And in their midst stood a huge glowing sphere, its power held by three rib-like arcs of stone. Within it stood…another Githyanki, this one somehow different. The placing of the leather clothing implied some kind of femininity, as did the narrower, less burly body. 'She' was glaring straight at Isaviel with malevolent yellow slit-like eyes set in a withered, wrinkled face. Her thick grey skin was mottled with a dim green, scraps of greyish hair pulled back in a topknot, much like the black ones of the warriors. Only beneath this rested some kind of shimmering silver coronet. Her hand was out as if to stop an immediate attack.

"Kalach-cha," the female Githyanki hissed, her rough voice echoing eerily through the portal and ringing through the blue tinted hall.

"Isaviel! Thank the gods!" Shandra's voice cried from a small cage at the far right corner, her figure just visible beyond the bars.

"Silence, prisoner!" the Githyanki leader exclaimed, and Isaviel could not help but hold back a smile of respect for Shandra's nerve – maybe there was more worth saving than a surname, after all, "And as for you, Kalach-cha, you were anticipated even if the Demons…and Devil…were not. I have seen you burning brightly in my visions for some time. How long did you think you could escape us? You have stolen our shards, defiled them with your touch. And now you will die, Shard-Bearer – Kalach-cha!"

"You attacked me first, before I had the shards. Doesn't that make all this your fault?" Isaviel's anger rose…if only to combat the agony tearing through her scar.

"No, you are a liar. You have always carried a shard with you, we have sensed it. I will enjoy killing you, just as I will leech the memories from the human woman's mind," the Githyanki spat.

"Wha…" Shandra gasped.

"We will save you, Shandra! Do not fear!" Casavir cried and Isaviel rolled her eyes, leaning back to whisper in Bishop's ear.

"If this turns into a battle, kill the paladin first, by all means," she told him and the ranger snorted.

"Your irreverence only makes the case for your death more solid," the Githyanki growled and Isaviel stood straight again.

"You seem awfully bothered about these shards, Gith."

"They are pieces of a broken silver sword, nothing more. You flatter yourself, humanling," but her demeanour seemed somehow less confident as she shifted her weight further back, glancing at her stoic warriors.

"Why don't you just give her the shards?" Qara groaned.

"Because they will kill us anyway. And I'm just too fascinated by what's so unique about this silver sword I'm getting together," Isaviel grinned when the Githyanki leader's expression flashed.

"I am Zeeaire, a Seer of my race. Your impudence is noted and will make your death all the sweeter. But I give you a chance to atone. My offer is this – I will grant you and your companions a swift death if you hand over your shards."

"I'm sure it will be your blood on this floor, not mine, before all my shards are in your possession…" Isaviel stopped abruptly as an odd coldness spread through her and Zeeaire laughed mockingly, a burst of blue fire flickering over the portal as the Githyanki raised glowing hands and the pouches for the shards clicked open.

"Did you really think that you could keep such relics of my people?" she cackled as the shards drifted through the air towards her, every one of the adventurers paralysed by some unknown spell. Then the Githyanki female's expression filled with cruel joy as she caught the shards and a look of understanding showed, "Odd. I have all those you carry and yet you still possess one."

A vicious swipe of one bony hand had Isaviel's slight form drifting helplessly up into the air, a scream tearing from her throat as her scar seemed to writhe and tear all the way to her heart. As battle erupted all around her, the paralysis of her friends wearing off, Isaviel became aware of a silver glow emanating from her chest, of blood soaking her tunic.

"Ah," Zeeaire's wicked voice carried easily over the sounds of battle, even as Bishop's swift aim took out a Githyanki running to Isaviel's floating form, shortsword drawn. _That _had been too close, "It seems you have a piece of the sword…inside you. Good. I shall tear it from your cold body!"

"By the Hells, you won't!" Isaviel cried, yelling through the pain of the shard in her body and the strength of the spells on her being.

It was with great satisfaction that the Moon Elf felt the spells receding with her pain and she landed easily on her feet in time to arc back, almost to the ground, to allow one of Bishop's arrows past, following its path with a back flip and dancing around the consequently dying Gith.

To her surprise, Isaviel saw Qara actually aiming her devastating spells – and at the pillars holding up the portal. Seeing Zeeiare's form flicker into greater solidity as the first stone arc crumbled under a blast of fire, Isaviel prepared herself to stop the Githyanki's first spell. And for recovering the shards. If only she could just live through this…

* * *

"I hope the pain you have brought here is revisited upon you a thousand fold," Zeeaire coughed, her body beaten and broken, a little singed.

The Githyanki Seer had finally slumped against the wall by the door, her pale eyes sweeping one last time across the room, at the many fallen warriors of her kind lying dead all around. At last she looked up at Isaviel, who remained standing over her, the shards already roughly taken, while many of the others had gone to free Shandra from her cage.

"But what comes for you is revenge enough," Zeeaire added weakly, "My people will no longer play a part in this."

"And what exactly is coming for me? Oh please, do tell," Isaviel enquired sarcastically, folding her arms and watching remorselessly as the Githyanki's blood continued to pool, the flow just that little bit slower now.

"In defying us you have only aided in harming all of your people – and all on your Plane. And most importantly for one so selfish, yourself."

"So I'm doomed. Enlighten me, Gith. Your life is fast running out, but I can still make it worse to endure."

"Evil wakes, Kalach-cha. A mist of blood and a storm of evil, coming for _you_," Zeeaire gasped, "And now you must stand alone against him, the Ancient Enemy, the Guardian, millennia old. You have felt few effects of his presence, but he is growing stronger. If he succeeds in his plan then your civilisation will become dust – as his once did – and all life will be consumed by darkness at the whim of this King of Shadows."

"Then I'll kill this 'King of Shadows', just as I killed you," Isaviel hissed, drawing one wicked kukri across Zeeaire's throat and seeing how its new magic burned at her skin.

During all of this Casavir, Elanee and Khelgar had been attempting to break Shandra's cell, and Neeshka had employed herself with looting Githyanki corpses. Grobnar looked quietly horrified by the death surrounding him, so only Bishop and Qara had borne witness to the curious conversation – and Isaviel's method of ending it. The Moon Elf caught Bishop's eye as she was cleaning her blade and he raised an eyebrow, 'tutting' at her and shaking his head teasingly. The others would not be so forgiving of such an act, she knew.

"Here, there's a key!" Isaviel called, standing as she retrieved it from a pool of Zeeaire's blood.

"Thank the Gods, get me out of this cage and let's be gone from this place!" Shandra cried as the others moved aside to let the Moon Elf try the key in the large, ornate padlock.

"There. It's done," Isaviel smiled in relief when the key clicked in the lock, pulling the hook aside and letting the cage door swing open freely.

"Hey! That's a good padlock, I'm keeping that," Neeshka insisted when Isaviel was about to drop it.

"Fine, I didn't realise you had a thing for such unorthodox decoration on your keys, though," the Moon Elf grinned when Neeshka winced at the touch of the sticky blood. But she kept it, stuffing it into her pack nonetheless.

"I'm getting so tired of this," Shandra sighed as she stepped gingerly out of the small space, but she was smiling genuinely when she looked at Isaviel, "You've got to let me save you sometime or else I'll never be able to pay you back!"

"Oh," Bishop laughed coldly, "There'll be plenty time for you to pay all of us on the way back to Neverwinter.

"I'm not paying any of you!" Shandra exclaimed, suddenly riled, pulling away when Elanee came over to attend to the bruises on her arms, presumably from where she had been tied with rope for the journey, "You all put me in danger."

"Actually, we've only ever tried to save you," Isaviel corrected angrily, "In case you've not been listening, it's your name and your blood they want. We'd rather have a nice chat with you by the fire to find out what you know – they'll just bottle or write down what they need and leave the rest for the worms. We've freed you from the Gith twice when they put you in danger. Better get used to it, looks like it follows you around."

"My lady, I'm sure…" Casavir began, but Bishop cut him off.

"If you're not going to pay me with money – and unlike our clearly _virtuous_ leader there, I don't accept simple thanks as any form of currency – then you'll be paying me another way," the ranger told Shandra languidly, "My bedroll's a little cold at night. I'm thinking you could fix that…"

"I'd rather go and hand myself into the Githyanki," Shandra spat as Isaviel turned to glare at Bishop in a sick fury. He was already smirking her way, not even registering the human woman's response.

"Maybe ye should shut yer mouth, ranger," Khelgar warned, hefting his axe threateningly, "Ye words're starting t' anger me."

"Do not speak of Shandra in such a way, Luskan," Casavir agreed.

"Oh…really," Bishop growled, Karnwyr snarling at his side, "I'd like to find out what your anger amounts to one day, Dwarf. I doubt it would be over troublesome to…cut it off. And anyway," he looked to all of them now, "How'd you like if I just left you here in Luskan territory with your righteousness to keep you company?"

"Bishop," Isaviel snarled at last, trying to ignore her returning pain as she felt a horrid tear run down her scar where Elanee's more rudimentary healing spells had served since the battle, "If you don't watch your tongue I'm cutting it off."

"Objective reached," Neeshka noted softly from nearby.

Bishop just laughed then, but Isaviel did not hear his answer as consciousness left her and she crumpled suddenly to the ground.

* * *

Isaviel groaned as the cold, hard ground pressed against her back, but felt the relief from much of her earlier pain far more acutely. The discomfort associated with the shard by her heart had fled completely, and the area of her scar ached only a little, as if it were a healing surface wound. Shifting to sit up and feeling her two travelling cloaks fall from her – the fur one closest to her skin reserved for icy mountain travel – she saw her pack and belt lain neatly by her side. Listening only vaguely to the cheerful conversation of her companions, who were gathered nearby around a large camp fire, she noticed that someone had changed her tunic as well as cleaned and bandaged her wound. The work must have been Elanee's, though Isaviel wondered how she had not woken, but the tunic…it was far too large for her, made of linen with lacing from the chest to neckline. A man's shirt, then, one that smelled clean, and felt soft. The slight embroidery at the hem, a pattern of down-played opulence, spoke volumes to the Moon Elf, and surprised her not at all. It had to be Casavir's.

Rubbing at her eyes and, despite her better judgement, surreptitiously breathing in the scent of the shirt she wore, Isaviel moved to sit back against the stone she had been facing. Looking up, she saw that it was in fact a great cliff-face, while ahead lay a dark forest of many tall trees, obscuring the land beyond and much of the clear, starry sky. Closest to her, maybe only two or three feet away, sat Elanee and Shandra, Grobnar between them. He was looking from one to the other and excitedly talking at some speed but in a hushed voice, as he had no doubt been warned not to waken Isaviel. Casavir sat a little further around the fire, leaning against a rock and cleaning his armour, now dressed in just his shirt and trousers, his boots gleaming by the fire. The lacing on his shirt was mostly undone, displaying the beginning lines of an impressively muscled torso, his large arms flexing distractingly as he worked. He seemed intent upon his work, his brilliantly blue eyes fixed upon his metal armour, his hammer shining by his side. Was it just her, or did it look a little duller?

Across the fire from the paladin, clearly as far away from him as she could get when still wishing to keep warm with the others, sat Neeshka, trying to subtly quantify the value of all the strange trinkets she had managed to acquire on the journey. Qara was more blatant about her derision of certain members of the group, preferring to sit on a more distant rock, contemplating the summoned fires in her palms.

"Ah, lass, yer awake!" Khelgar acknowledged brightly, and she turned to see him approaching from a more distant point, "The paladin had to carry ye out o' those damned caves. Glad yer feeling better though – ye are, are ye not? Good," he crouched beside her now, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight as his expression grew graver, "I heard about that shard ye carry by yer heart. And I'm sorry we couldn't get ye to an inn to rest awhile, those ungrateful bastards at Ember flat out turned us away. Told us all that we were nothin' but trouble, and people like us don't deserve help. Not even you, bleedin' everywhere in Casavir's arms. That ranger, Bishop, cursed them right and proper for that, maybe the only thing I think he's ever done right in his life. But I've been trying _not _to explain them curses to Elanee all the way down the cliff path. That druid has far too much curiosity about foul language, if ye ask me."

"That wretched town. Did they blame Shandra, as well?" Isaviel asked, and sighed when the Dwarf nodded, "How long have I been unconscious?"

"A few hours," Khelgar admitted, patting her shoulder, "Ye woke when Elanee was dealing with yer wound, apparently, but the herbs she gave ye to ease the pain have probably dulled them memories, she said."

"He speaks truly," Elanee admitted, smiling over at Isaviel as Shandra was just standing, the latter looking over at the Moon Elf uncomfortably before heading for her bedroll, "I must retire to gather my strength, though I hope no more spells will be needed. Goodnight, Isaviel – I am glad you are feeling better."

"I…thank you," Isaviel managed to smile, and the druid inclined her head as she stood and moved away.

"I'm on first watch, lass. I'll see ye in the mornin'," Khelgar added, also heading away around the fire.

"Isaviel! You're awake!" Neeshka beamed, waving some gold items about in her hands, "Look at all the things I've found!"

"I'm sure you'll get lots for them," the Moon Elf smiled genuinely, feeling oddly at peace with all of those around her, and grateful for their company and support in a way she never had before that night.

At last she caught sight of Bishop, pacing back and forth in the shadows off to the left, back in the direction of the road she believed they must have come from. Karnwyr was asleep, curling near the Moon Elf's bed roll, and she almost tripped on him as she pulled herself stiffly to her feet, telling those who remained by the fire something vague about needing to stretch her legs before heading towards the ranger.

"I hear you championed me at Ember?" Isaviel asked him only half-sarcastically as she drew near, shivering in the cold wind and wishing she had brought her fur cloak.

Bishop stopped his pacing to turn around, and took two quick steps towards her, his eyes intense – if still rather openly mistrustful – before stopping abruptly only one more step away, seeing the shirt she wore and giving a derisive snort.

"Hardly," he denied, "The paladin carried you all that way, limp like a rag doll. I just supplied the…profanities. We were all thinking the same thing. We _all _wanted a warm bed at the inn. It wasn't…"

He stopped when she drew closer, running her hands over the fur lined edges of his cloak, and he brought up a hand to curve around the back of her neck as she looked up at him. She could not help but smile at the effect she clearly had on him – and at his willingness to show it, or his inability to deny it.

"A heart of silver," Bishop laughed softly, and patted his own chest, "It must be so cold in there," and his voice lowered, watching her darkly, "And the devil certainly had a lot to say to you. It seems like you know less of yourself than you think. Makes you dangerous to have around...even if you are the one who keeps getting hurt."

"Better me than you, right?" Isaviel mocked him, but he didn't seem to be listening, watching her lips as she spoke.

"I want to kiss you," he growled after a moment, his frown deepening, "But you wear the paladin's shirt."

"I would sooner wear my own, but I fear it is a little worse for wear," Isaviel shrugged, and felt a little rush of pleased surprise when the ranger, that brutal and rude gods-be-damned wretched ranger, undid the clasp of his cloak and pulled it off, fastening it about her shoulders.

"Better," he murmured, drawing her closer as he shifted the warm item around her, pulling up the hood and pressing his forehead to hers as he held its edges, "If you wear the paladin's shirt, you have to wear this tonight. He does not get to claim you. That's my job."

He stopped her inevitable objection to _anyone _claiming her by stealing her breath with a passionate kiss, making up for their all too brief encounter before meeting Zeeaire. He was not gentle, and his hands against her skin held her just a little too hard for one who was bruised from her undignified journey there. But he was warm and strong – and though she knew she should not, she felt safer for his hold on her. And that paradoxical memory, that he was _dangerous,_ was all the more exhilarating… Suddenly, he broke off the kiss as her arms began to snake around his neck, leaving her gasping, pouting up at him.

"The Devil," he noted almost angrily, "What did he say to you…that we could not hear? And he kissed you," he took a hold of her wrist and looked at the offending hand, where a blistered mark remained.

"He was a Devil, Bishop. He promised me power and gold, trying to make me think I could trust him," Isaviel told him defensively, pulling her hand back and stepping away quickly, eyeing him incredulously, "Are you _jealous_?"

"You are lying to me. He wanted to seduce you. He _wanted _you. Just like the paladin does. Just like that wretched wizard Sand and…"

"Enough! You want to own me?" Isaviel demanded, unfastening his cloak and throwing it back at him furiously, "Well you can't! Is that why you suggested Shandra take to your bed? To make me jealous out of revenge? And what in all the Hells are you implying? You have never even met Sand…"

"And staying with him to drink wine does not suggest something…other than friendly intentions?" Bishop sneered, "Your naivety sickens me. I am not jealous. I am…"

"Then what are you? Sickened by how other men might see me? Offended that I spend time with people who do not answer to 'Bishop'?" Isaviel mocked, "Well, just so you know, that's jealousy. Better get used to it…"

She gasped when he pulled her back to him angrily, and for a moment she thought he had crueller intentions for her than he really did. Again he kissed her, though she fought him at first. A moment passed and she gave in, sighing against him and pulling him closer, feeling her back collide with the bark of a tree behind her. With her acceptance he grew gentler, his lips brushing against hers.

"Yes, I'm jealous," he admitted, pushing aside her hair to bend closer and leave a soft kiss on her neck, "Because I don't like having to compete with such paltry company."

"Ha! Really, you hold yourself in high esteem, ranger," Isaviel smirked as he ignored her, kissing his way back up to her lips, lingering there a moment before stepping back wordlessly, retrieving his cloak and putting it back on.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm saving your reputation, oh Lady Virtue," he grinned when she frowned at him, "For your band of fools is tiresome at best, and their glares and mutterings behind my back will just make me want to kill them more. Better run along back to camp before they notice someone's missing."

Without giving her a moment more to respond, he disappeared into the dark forest, leaving her to think on all those promises he had just implied with those words. But now he was gone, and she was walking back to the camp, glad that no one gave her a second glance as she settled on her bed roll again.

All she could think of was Mephasm. What had he meant about her father? Why did he feel so…familiar? And how did he know so much – even down to the certainty that they would meet again? He had not just offered her power and gold, it was true. He _had_ tried to seduce her. Just as Bishop seemed to be doing, as well. And, she had to remind herself, she was not sure whose intentions were more devilish.


	13. That Which is Fated

"Ah! You've returned!" Duncan cried cheerfully a night later as the group traipsed wearily into the Sunken Flagon when he was just cleaning the bar, well past closing time, each slumping gratefully into their habitual places, "Glad t' see yer all here…and each still in one piece, no less."

"Actually, I'm told there's an extra piece inside," Isaviel informed a little sharply. Her uncle's expression flickered and she knew he was hiding something.

"What do ye mean, lass?"

"You know exactly what I mean," she realised, "There's another shard – a fifth, actually, to add to Daeghun's, yours, Aldanon's and the one I took from the Gith," she counted them off on her fingers, "And it's right under the scar on my chest."

"Isaviel," Duncan sounded – and looked – horrified, "I – we had no idea…"

"Ah, notice the stumble in his words?" Bishop noted, taking an uncharacteristic seat beside the Moon Elf. She noted he smelled of firewood, the forest…and the lingering scent of Githyanki blood.

"Silence, Bishop!" Duncan commanded unexpectedly, glaring at the ranger before gesturing for Isaviel to sit with him on another table across the room, out of hearing of any others.

"Well?" she demanded as Sal returned to the tavern to greet them, offering them warm cider, soup…

"Look, Isaviel, I don't know if I should be the one to tell ye this. But if ye've got one o' those shards _in_ you, then ye deserve to know everything," Duncan sighed, "Nearly thirty years ago now the King of Shadows led an army o' demons against the combined forces of the Lords' Alliance, and they met at West Harbour. They spilled over the hills and into the village without warning. Villagers fled every which way to escape the melee. But Daeghun's wife, Shayla, and your mother, Esmerelle, didn't. They stayed, you know that, but what he's never told you is that they stayed to _save_ ye, not just t' find ye. As demons and magefire rained upon yer village, they fought to reach yer crib. By the time Daeghun realised they were missing, it was too late. He could only watch as the village was consumed by battle. As for ye wings – Shayla had been telling me about them just earlier that day – they were not like them of the demons or devils, they were already broad, silent when you flapped them, just like an owl's. Thick, glossy grey feathers they had. Well when Daeghun and Tarmas found you, they'd been cut off with some horrible demonic blade – they must have been…torturing ye when ye ma found ye. But there was no one else alive in the village – yer mother was there…so much blood…and you were clutched to her bosom, a deep wound in yer chest. She'd tried to shield ye but it must have gone through her and lodged in you. No one knew how ye survived, but ye did and yer wound healed itself in days. But if the wound was caused by the shard then that raises many questions. And I'm afraid I'm just all out of answers."

"So I have been lied to my entire life?" Isaviel felt sick.

"It wasn't my decision," Duncan promised, "And my brother will be furious I told you."

The ageing half-Elf leaned his head in his hands as he spoke, as if to hide from the pain of his memories. Seeing this, and feeling some measure of understanding, Isaviel put a comforting hand on his arm and tried to speak more kindly.

"Uncle…is there anything else you can tell me?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Duncan said, sitting up and looking at her with pained eyes, "Look, I wanted to tell ye, I did…but…"

"Why the long faces? Somebody die?" Bishop sneered from across the room, "If so it sounds like cause for a celebration to me," he took a swig of ale and waved his tankard at Sal for another.

Duncan and Isaviel gave up on their private conversation, the ranger's words having drawn the attention of all of the rest of the group. On her way back to the long central table, the Moon Elf paused to scratch Karnwyr's head as she passed by the fire in front of which he lay, gnawing on a bone. She saw Shandra's eyes on her again, that same uncomfortable look on the woman's face. Was that guilt? Or was it fear?

"Grobnar, you worthless half-man, strike up a tune…before I strike you," Bishop was telling the Gnome, which made Qara splutter into her drink – always water, since she remained there officially under sufferance – and Isaviel just rolled her eyes as Grobnar skipped obediently forth.

"Yes, Sir Bishop, it s-so happens I have j-just the tune."

"By the way," Bishop began, turning to face the Moon Elf with a wicked grin on his ruggedly handsome face, "I've decided it would be…in both our interests…if I stay on with you."

Isaviel raised an amused eyebrow, ignoring Duncan's immediate protests, eyeing the ranger carefully.

"And why would you do that? You weren't exactly willing to stick around after Old Owl Well, or to help us save Shandra."

"If I am _welcome_," the ranger sneered, a hand moving to her leg under the table, "Then I'd be able to help myself to my fair share of gold and dangerous adventure. Travelling with you has been the most fun I've had in years," and the rough edge to his voice made Isaviel shiver.

"Well," Neeshka mumbled, slipping onto the chair at her other side, "At least he's honest. And it'd make up for some of the others you've got around this place…"

"No, no," Duncan was saying quickly, his tone clipped and nervous.

"We don't need you, Bishop. And we don't want any more of your help," Casavir growled, words to which Isaviel rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Ah," Bishop smirked, "Why don't you let our leader speak for herself, paladin, without you speaking for her, eh?"

"There's no need," Duncan agreed, "I'm sorry for before but you've done more than…"

"Oh, come now Duncan. I still owe you," the ranger fairly snarled, "And what better way to make it up to you than watching your…kin…here? After all, a debt's a debt all the way until the end, isn't that right, Duncan?"

In response the half-Elf threw up his hands and turned away, while Casavir, who had come over to sit opposite Bishop, aimed a pleading stare at Isaviel, who glared right back.

"I say Bishop can do as he likes," she snapped, "And I certainly do not appreciate being spoken for, Casavir."

An awkward silence fell, no one seemed to want to look at each other and only the slow swish of Neeshka's tail was audible. Finally Shandra sighed and looked up at Isaviel nervously. Seated beside Casavir she was thus facing the Moon Elf.

"Alright, as much as I hate to ask, someone needs to break this silence and it might as well be me. You know I'm grateful for everything you've done for me so far, but…what happens now? To me, I mean. I can't go back to my farm – you know, ashes and all."

"Well," the Moon Elf paused, looking at the fierce determination now showing in Shandra's eyes for a moment before shrugging with a tight smile, "You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

"Why?" Bishop whispered so that only Isaviel and Neeshka could hear, giving the Moon Elf a nudge, a smirk playing across his face, "Because we need someone who's easy on the eyes? That's my job, I believe."

Their quiet laughter went largely unnoticed as Casavir found a new chance to speak, driven by chivalry.

"I agree with our leader," he told Shandra kindly, "It is your right, if you wish to travel with us."

"Thank you…both of you, but…" Shandra began, clearly taken aback.

Bishop laughed derisively, even as his hand began to drift over Isaviel's skin before almost unnoticeably toying with locks of her hair, where her loosened braids fell to her lower back. She tried very hard not to react, not at a table of those so adamantly opposed to him.

"Ye'll need to learn to defend yerself properly," Khelgar was pointing out, and finally Shandra nodded.

"Alright," she sighed, "If you're going to help me to learn to survive then I accept. But there is something you'll have to accept too. I won't be left behind because all this trouble keeps happening and I'm really tired of it."

"Sounds fair to me," Isaviel nodded, and felt Bishop tug at her hair as the others gave their affirmations to Shandra's place among them.

"So the farm girl's going to join us," the ranger sneered, "Good. We need someone to make up for the paladin," this drew a righteous glow from Casavir, and thus a hiss from Neeshka, "Or at least to catch arrows when Grobnar's dead." Several gasps followed, and barely contained laughter from Isaviel, Neeshka and Qara.

Unexpectedly, Bishop put an arm around Isaviel's waist, pulling her tightly to him as he waved imperiously at Duncan.

"For now I say we open some of those kegs and drown the Flagon in wine."

* * *

"Our little group has a lot more potential for intrigue than I'd first imagined," Isaviel admitted as she turned around to press a pin through her hair, which was still wet from her bath.

"I know what you mean, and I don't like it," Neeshka agreed, padding over to the doorway of the Moon Elf's room and nudging the door open a little further.

"I don't _trust_ it, but nor do I dislike it," Isaviel suggested, grunting in surprise when she turned to see Karnwyr inching through the doorway, "It's full of potential to exploit, I think."

Neeshka knelt to pet the wolf, staring down the corridor, then paused a moment before looking up at her friend with a broad grin.

"Looks like our local ranger has been away from the party to take a bath. Trust me…I saw."

Isaviel rolled her eyes and seated herself at the end of the bed.

"I've learned a few important things tonight about our…friends. For one, Elanee is in love – or not far off – with Casavir." The druid had not left the paladin's side since she started drinking; she had become giggly and prone to blushing, "While Duncan can take neither so much mead nor so much wine as he would like us to think – and he wants to bed Shandra," he had been showing her his hunting trophies for a while, telling tales of his adventures, "…while all Shandra has eyes for is Casavir. And to add to it all, Grobnar is besotted with Elanee." The gnome had made that clear with a love song.

"And where does that leave you?" Neeshka smiled knowingly, pretending to think for a moment and then held up a hand which Karnwyr playfully snapped at, as if to punctuate the point, "Oh, yeah, that's right. That leaves you stuck between a rock and a very, very dark place."

"Bishop and Casavir, don't you mean?" Isaviel raised an eyebrow, trying to shake it off, but her heart raced and seemed to flip a few times all the same, "Casavir was dancing very devotedly with Shandra when we left, remember?" Wine seemed to make even him a little amorous.

"Of course. But he watched every bit of you leave the room…and Bishop watched _him_ with murder in his eyes."

Isaviel's lips quirked at this, and Neeshka did not fail to notice.

"It's the_ intrigue_ they bring to you that I don't trust. That righteous aura Casavir has…it's revolting. And it's utterly unsuited to you. You heard Mephasm, and you felt the presence of the Blood Wars' creatures. Not to mention that vanishing trick you've always been able to do. And wings? I've seen the scars, and feathers don't mean anything. _Mephasm has feathered wings_. I'd bet my tail you're Devil kin, though I'm not following why I like you so much if that's the case. But anyway, that aura would break you, no matter how intriguing working out his secrets might turn out to be."

"I have no interest in Casavir, Neeshka."

"Yes, you do. You stare at him when you're not paying attention – don't think I didn't see you that evening after we saved Shandra. Staring. And you get too much fun out of frustrating him. You want what you know you shouldn't. And speaking of which, please remember not to trust Bishop. He's brutal and cruel…and he brings out the worst in y…"

"Neeshka, stop," Isaviel tried hard not to snap…and failed, "I thought you wanted his help in whatever it is you brought me here to talk about?"

"I do. Hey, I'm not saying don't have fun with him, but I'm just…bolstering how much you know not to trust him."

"A wise plan," Bishop's voice cut in as he stepped into the room dressed just in trousers and a less-than-half-laced shirt, closing the door softly behind himself. Defined muscle and gleaming scars showed in the firelight as he crossed the room to unconcernedly cast himself onto Isaviel's bed, taking a swig of wine from a bottle as he did so. But he was not drunk, and would not be, that was clear. Not until their agreed mischief was done.

"What is the plan, and when do we head out?" Bishop asked mockingly, leaning forward to place the bottle by Isaviel, and at the same time surreptitiously sliding a hand around her side to rest against her hip. His breath was hot against her neck and smelled of cinnamon and wine as he lingered there, watching intently as his hand moved and then pulled away to recline on his elbow once more.

"We head out once everyone has drunk themselves to bed," Neeshka said, trying to ignore what had just happened, "And the plan is this: to break into my…old thieving partner's house. And steal as much as we can – but we have to get his lucky coin, because it's the thing he loves the most, for some stupid reason."

"And why are we doing this?"

"Well, I said I would tell you what was bothering me, and it's him. I've got an old score to settle with him, and while you were away in West Harbour he finally found out I was back in town. I had to keep my head low, at least for a few weeks, waiting for his men to get sloppy – and now I've got the Thieves' Guild to protect me from his ruffians, so I have a chance to strike back. And I'm not going to stop at taking his things." Her expression grew darker than Isaviel had ever known it to be, and something in that look made her insides turn cold, "I'm going to sneak into his room while he's sleeping and I'm going to show him what I took…and then I am going to kill him."

* * *

The plan Neeshka had relayed to them was thorough and well thought out. She knew Leldon's home as well as she knew his habits, apparently. When Isaviel had asked why the Tiefling was so determined to do this herself, when she had so much of the former Thieves' Guild under her control, she had responded firmly that she could not let those she employed have all the fun. And from the fiery look in her pink eyes, Isaviel could tell it was more than that – this was personal; it was revenge.

Thus it was that Isaviel found herself slowly pushing open a ground floor window of one of the smaller – yet still at least outwardly respectable – estates on the north side of the Merchant Quarter. Slipping into a dark room, she quickly surveyed the area for traps – the window had not been easy to unlock for Neeshka, but even so it would not do to be overconfident, not if the Tiefling's summation of Leldon had been correct. Bishop followed, turning back around to pull Neeshka up after him.

But for a few chests of plain clothing and some odd books that seemed far too academic for one of Leldon's persuasion, the room was empty, just a storage place – perhaps to make it seem more viable as a merchant's estate, if the Watch ever paid a visit. Creeping on silent feet into the hallway, the idea was much the same – a few cheap paintings on the walls, a simple long rug of woven blue thread along the floor. Neeshka went one way, Isaviel the other, and it was only when she was about to round the corner that Bishop put his hands on her waist to stop her, and she bit her lip when he leaned against her back to 'tut' in her ear, his breath hot against her neck.

Moving away, the ranger headed to the corner, where the wall of the corridor ended and turned at a right angle to begin the next. His hand very steady, he reached out and unhooked a metal wire, following its diagonal course to the other side of the corridor and unhooking it from there, too. Isaviel watched with embarrassment as he disarmed the trap, wondering how she had not seen it. And wondering, also, what would have happened if he had not stopped her.

"There're quite a few sleeping guards down that way, including one who fell asleep at his post by the front door," Neeshka whispered a moment later and Isaviel turned to see the Tiefling standing by her side, watching Bishop with a slightly derisive expression, "But it's just a dead end. Leldon must be down this way. And you," she prodded Isaviel's shoulder, "Need to keep focused. Don't let him distract you – he's having way too much fun working out what he can do to you in times of concentration."

"She's not wrong, Isaviel," Bishop grinned.

"Shut up, Bishop," Neeshka told him firmly, though she could not hide her smirk, "I've seen her _cartwheel_ by traps like that before…and make mincemeat out of men like you."

He just sneered at her, taking her words as false, and let her lead on. Although it was not particularly large as estates went, the house had many narrow, winding paths – undoubtedly a maze intended to confuse potential attackers. But either Neeshka knew Leldon's ways well, or she had been to this place many times before, because she knew all of the traps and exactly where to go. Isaviel was a little startled by the ease of it all, although occasionally as they inched along they had to quickly dodge a wandering guard, or Neeshka failed to notice a change in the traps, Isaviel having to pull her back more than once at the last second before she set one off. Two things seemed incongruous – although he had so many guards and such a well-defended house, Leldon did not seem to be expecting a visitor as familiar as Neeshka, for most of his traps were known to her.

In spite of her distrust of the situation, Isaviel followed Neeshka, as did Bishop, and at last they found themselves in what appeared to be Leldon's escape route, Neeshka slowly opening the door to his private chambers. This one was not trapped and had no locks – evidently so that the owner could escape in a hurry if needed. They crept into the darkened room to the sound of quiet snores, softly closing the door behind them. Neeshka gestured for them to stay where they were, and crept expertly through the dark, cluttered room, which was full of traps and strange, foreign trinkets, tapestries, furniture, discarded finery…

Leldon only woke when Neeshka's hand clamped down over his mouth, while her knee pressed onto his chest, that vicious Githyanki dagger at his throat. Her grin was wicked, and even Bishop looked a little taken aback by the malice in her eyes, glinting in the thin strands of moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains.

"You know why I'm here," the Tiefling hissed, raising something above his eyes which glinted in the fragile light – a coin, one she had just taken from its place upon a stand on the drawers, "You see this? I'm _taking _it. So that when you're dead, I can rob everything from you that you have ever cared about. But it won't be as sweet as the revenge I'm taking now."

He just looked up at her with fear in his eyes, but made no effort to plead. Whatever he had done, it was bad enough that he knew there was no chance. And he was right, for in a moment she had cut his throat, and his blood did not even have a chance to well up before the magic of the weapon dissolved his flesh, devouring him before he had fully died. Neeshka watched it all intently, though the smile had left her face. She looked…tired. But relieved.

A second of silence past, save for the bubbling and hissing of Leldon's remains, and then the Tiefling returned to Isaviel's side, waving the strange coin at her.

"This," she told her softly, "Will get us into that vault," and she pointed towards an apparently innocent wardrobe, which sported the strangest lock the Moon Elf had ever seen.

It appeared to be a padlock, buried deep within the doors of the wardrobe, with a few indentations and no keyhole in its face. Neeshka pressed the coin to it and turned it just a little, and a quiet click was heard, the curved bar of the lock sliding back into the main mechanism, and the doors swung open.

"Well, by all the Hells," Bishop breathed as they stared into a much larger alcove – more of a room, really – than they had expected.

Within no gold lay, nor gems or jewels, for like any self-respecting gang leader Leldon had invested his clearly immense wealth into a vast arsenal of wondrous weaponry. As they snuck inside, Isaviel found herself to be both awed and disappointed. They would not be able to carry much away, though Neeshka was already adeptly rooting through the piles of gleaming daggers encrusted with jewels and strange, arcane runes, dropping a few, mostly those complete with sheaths, in her pack.

Bishop stepped straight ahead, as pleased as Isaviel had ever seen him, and picked up an impressive longbow from the stand in the corner. It was black as night, but for a red jewel at each end, and with no visible string. However, when he brought an arrow to it, the jewels glowed and a gossamer-thin, silvery string appeared. A wicked grin grew on his face to match, and Isaviel could only gawp at the weapon for a moment more before more indiscriminately filling her pack, containing her glee when she discovered several shuriken on a table, each inlaid with a single tiny sapphire. That was something which Brother Merring had known to teach her, but that weaponry had been lost in the most recent battle at West Harbour, and she was more than glad to have some more in her possession, especially ones as fine as these.

Suddenly, Neeshka stilled, gesturing for the others to stop as well, turning around and pointing to the opening to the vault. As if on reflex, Bishop spun about too, sending an arrow through the futilely stealthy guard's throat as he appeared before them. As one the group shouldered their stolen goods and rushed to the exit, just as the alarm went up – a bell being rung at the door by a second guard upon seeing his master was dead, and his colleague twitching on the floor by the vault. A shuriken brought him a quick death, a low humming audible to Isaviel as it came spinning back to her. Surprised by the enchantment she snatched it out of the air before it could do any damage to her, but when they heard approaching footsteps down the hall the three thought no more of their new augmentations and vanished down the escape passage.

"I understand why you do this now," Bishop almost looked ready to laugh, sending a few more arrows after their pursuers, giving them enough time to bolt the next door in the plain, dark passage and stumble out into the street.

It was dark and almost deserted here, a light rain misting the narrow cobbled path leading back to the main street from Leldon's home. Neeshka was squealing with a mixture of fear and excitement as they bolted in that direction. Upon rounding the corner onto the main thoroughfare the Tiefling almost crashed into a startled Watchman patrolling the street, but they staved off any questions by showing Isaviel's Watch badge and muttering something about confiscated goods.

"We have some of the thugs attempting to pursue us even now – is your patrol group close?" Isaviel asked of him, trying so very hard to disguise her relieved laughter at the unexpected aid.

"Why…yes, of course!" the Watchman flashed a look at Neeshka, and Isaviel realised he must be one of those under the pay of the Thieves' Guild as well. When the Tiefling nodded to him, his look became more determined, "We will deal with them at once."

"What was that?" Bishop asked suspiciously once the Watchman had rushed back down the street to his group, undoubtedly set on arresting Leldon's surprisingly tenacious guards.

"We have contacts," Neeshka shrugged with a grin, "And we have a hideout to take this stuff back to, remember? Let's go! And we'll divide what we like between us."

"Sounds fine by me," Isaviel grinned as they kept up their quick pace over to the Dolphin Bridge.

Nodding to the guards on duty, again using the privilege of her badge, they were let through, leaving a warning about their potential 'unlawful pursuers'. Once the gates were barred behind them, they knew they were safe. They could hear a few shouts back the way they had come, but it did not sound like much resistance was being made by those once in Leldon's pay. With him dead, they would probably be more likely to make off with what they could and sell it for the best price. Rare was it that such leaders maintained a loyal following after death.

"I hope you intend to celebrate our spoils, oh lawful 'Lieutenant of the Watch'," Bishop pointed out at they strolled down the bridge, slinging an arm around her shoulders as Neeshka carried on ahead.

"What did you have in mind?" the Moon Elf asked, amused by her Tiefling friend's speed – Neeshka had taken more than she or Bishop, but was most buoyed by their success.

"Wine, a night away from that despicable Sunken Flagon…" he paused, pushing her back against one of the lantern poles on the street, "And maybe other diversions."

"Hmm…I'm sure we can arrange that," Isaviel smirked as he leaned in closer to kiss her, his lips hot and urgent against hers, growling against her to disguise his groan when she kissed him back…

They caught up with Neeshka just as she was crossing over into the Docks District, sending them a derisive glance. Her pink eyes were glowing in the darkness, her natural darkvision taking over in the dim light, although several lanterns hung along each street, allowing just enough light for human eyes to navigate by. There were many of the district's inhabitants out even at this late hour – the typical drunken sailors, though fewer than earlier in the year, and various other men and women out to drink away their poverty and toils, regardless of the day. The Watch seemed more numerous than it had on other nights when Isaviel had actually been present in the city, and that made her curious. She knew that Neeshka's guild was only growing stronger, even with the Blacklake and all its wealth remaining under a lockdown until further notice.

"I'm surprised you two could even restrain yourselves that much before we get back," Neeshka looked at them teasingly as the three made their way towards her hideout, "But Isaviel, I have a few things to show you before we all…retire for the night. And there's a _lot _of wine to drink, believe me."

"I'm all for that," Bishop agreed and the Tiefling just rolled her eyes.

Shortly they reached the Thieves' Guild hideout, although via a docks-side entrance with which Isaviel was unfamiliar, and rather notably it was at the opposite end – and side – from the usual entrance to Moire's old rooms. This looked older, more like a real house's entrance, with a little brass knocker and an apparently functional lock. But Neeshka turned the key four times, once right and thrice left, speaking a pass phrase as well, before the door actually swung open. This led to a dark passageway ending in a steep flight of skeletal stairs. There were no doors along the undecorated wooden walls, and when Bishop closed the entrance behind him Isaviel saw the complex mechanism below the handle click back into place.

"Well, this is different," Isaviel remarked, but the Tiefling just smiled over her shoulder.

The Moon Elf and the ranger joined Neeshka at the top of the stairs, where a plain archway led onto a broad mezzanine floor. Several of those full bookcases Moire had favoured to imply knowledge and wizarding conquests remained, flanking a set of curtains at the centre of the right wall. Over to the left, beyond a table surrounded by two large couches, was a low railing and a set of spiral stairs, leading up to an attic door beyond the rafters and down into a large kitchen area at the centre of which was a long dining table. Everything was still and dark, the fire at the other end of the room obviously grown cold, though Isaviel thought she could just about make out a little glow from it, as if it had been lit that day.

"We stopped employing servants as soon as I took over – too many people to employ – and got that table instead. It makes more sense to prepare your own food, right? Especially in this business," the Tiefling said absently as she went over to light the fire again while Isaviel and Bishop slumped into one couch, leaving their heavy packs on the table where Neeshka had dumped hers.

"You don't really go in for Moire's decorative style," Isaviel noted as the Tiefling was returning with two lit candles.

"No! It makes more sense to sell it all for as much gold as possible…I mean….what am I going to do with all those fancy carpets anyway? And that chandelier in her chambers was _gross_," Neeshka sighed, sitting down on the couch opposite and starting to empty the contents of the bags across the table between them.

"Why didn't you just take her rooms as your own? Weren't they the best defended ones?"

"I couldn't," the Tiefling shook her head, her eyes grown serious, "Not after what happened there. And there's a better safe in the basement, actually. Seemed safer for my own life if it wasn't just right next to my bed. Anyway, you can have her rooms. I sold all the stuff in there which was massive and disgustingly unsightly, but the rest of it's still there. You can just…have it all."

"I didn't take you as being so sentimental, Tiefling," Bishop spoke up at last.

"Well, it's not like Moire was ever unfair to me. That stuff against Isaviel just came up out of nowhere, and we had no choice in it."

"But you do like to plot to kill _other _people, don't you Neeshka? Even though….if Leldon had wanted you killed he would have struck out at you more directly by now."

"I…" the Tiefling flinched, starting to look uncomfortable, "That was personal and…"

"Ah, I see you have returned at last – and with more spoils to show for it! Is Leldon gone now? I trust he is."

That slightly accented voice interrupted the beginning argument and they all looked over to the man now standing between the curtains. He was still not fully visible, over there where neither firelight nor candlelight could reach, but even before he started to approach Isaviel was beginning to understand. His eyes shone such a deep red in the low light, fading slowly as he stepped closer until they were a clear amber. He was an Elf, Isaviel saw, though she knew of only one group of Elves renowned for the type of darkvision which would change his eyes so in the darkness. And once he stepped unconcernedly into the reddish glow of the fire, she saw his obsidian skin, his braids of white, ochre-tinged hair. He was a Drow; a 'Dark Elf'. Daeghun had told her of the Drow, the worshippers of the evil goddess Lolth, the Spider Queen, a people who lived in the Underdark cities of Ched Nasad and Menzoberranzan. But he had also taught her that there were those among them who sought to leave those evil societies, though not necessarily always for good, and that those Drow had to sever all the ties from their culture, the one which killed Moon Elf children for sport. Thus they were not necessarily always enemies – but oftentimes they were.

"This is Mae'rillar," Neeshka was saying, having already indicated Isaviel and Bishop. It took just one glance at the Tiefling for Isaviel to understand – she was in love was this Drow, and he with her if their shared look was anything to go by, "He's a trusted…friend – we've known each other since before I first came to Neverwinter – he runs the Thieves' Guild when I'm not around. I've been meaning to introduce you."

Mae'rillar nodded to both of his new acquaintances amiably enough, though his eyes watched them closely. He did not trust them, not even if Neeshka appeared to, perching himself on the arm of the couch by her side, not sitting properly. He was tall for one of his kind, taller than Isaviel, although certainly still smaller than either Neeshka or Bishop. Dressed carefully in neat black trousers and a fully laced green tunic he had evidently not been asleep at this late hour – for a Drow the time of darkness would be more comfortable than day, anyway. He appeared to be unarmed, apparently safe as he was in the warded and locked hideout, but his form was muscular, his movements agile and graceful. There was no doubt that he was trained in battle, and it would be a grave mistake to assume otherwise with a Drow.

Attempting to fight the discomfort she was feeling, Isaviel joined Bishop and Neeshka's discussions about the items they had taken. Mae'rillar silently watched them all filtering through the strange weaponry – most of it ornate but otherwise utterly mundane, with no hints of magic. They found a simple shortsword which Isaviel decided would be good for Shandra's intention of learning how to fight, and she startled herself by how uncomfortable the idea of the woman training with Casavir made her. The Moon Elf had only traded pleasantries – or the occasional complaints – with the paladin, but she preferred to know where his obsessions lay. If Neeshka was right, then she wanted Neeshka to stay right. Changes of affection, or alterations of lust, could jeopardise any feelings of control she had. And speaking of control, she wondered at her own hypocrisy on that front every time Bishop touched her, or glanced her way. Their kisses on the bridge had been mere preamble, she knew that. A promise, and a reminder. But if he believed that he owned her, she was determined to prove him wrong.

"I am glad that you have achieved your aim for tonight – and you must recount it to me later," Mae'rillar smiled to Neeshka, standing smoothly and moving for the stairs without any further explanation.

"So that is the one you leave to keep this place running," Bishop sneered once the Drow had gone, drawing a glare from Neeshka, "You _did_ have a use for all those fancy rugs you sold, after all."

* * *

The wine had been stronger than Isaviel was used to, and available in far greater quantities than she had expected, as well. Moire really had loved her wines, and had kept two separate stores of it across the extensive basement. Neeshka had seemed a little distracted at first, and was clearly unwilling to explain her motives for killing Leldon in front of Bishop. After a time, however, she had become more cheerful and giggly, dancing with Isaviel about the couches. They had taken to arming themselves as ludicrously as possible with the weaponry they had found, to stage mock battles. Bishop had not joined in much, not until he had drunk a bottle and a half of wine, at least.

When Isaviel's attempts to acquire the ranger's cooperation, at Neeshka's urging, had failed, ending in a kiss instead, they had eventually turned around to see that the Tiefling had seen none of it, curled up on one couch and fast asleep as she was. Alcohol clearly made her tired. So they had snuck away, the Moon Elf taking the ranger by the hand and leading him to the other side of the complex, to the rooms which Neeshka had officially named Isaviel's. They had once been Moire's but this did not bother Isaviel as it did her Tiefling friend. The place had a vast, expensive bed. And a lot of new things for the Moon Elf to call her own.

"Looks to me like the Tiefling chose the short straw…willingly," Bishop commented with a smirk as he lazily discarded his tunic by the bed, a look which only grew when he saw the Moon Elf observing his defined, lithely muscular form appreciatively.

"All the more for us, don't you think?" Isaviel pointed out with a smile.

When she approached, now just clad in her long tunic, he pulled her to him as gently as she had ever known, leaning down to kiss her slowly, deeply, as one hand pulled free the laces leading down the neckline of her tunic. She could feel her heart pounding, could feel that she wanted him as well, but she did not trust how his gentleness made her feel. It made her want to trust him, it made her want to understand him. And that way lay emotions she could not bear to consider.

As if feeling the same problem, Bishop's movements became more insistent and he pushed the tunic from her shoulders before backing her up onto the bed, biting at her neck as he followed her and smiling against her when she gasped. His eyes were blazing when he drew back briefly, a hand trailing along her body, watching her with a smirk until she pulled him to her.

* * *

This night the dreams were worse in a more…personal way… than they had ever been, and Isaviel woke up gasping as dawn broke through the window by the bed. There had been no fire this time, no deaths – this time she had been the captive of the Githyanki immediately. In this dream Bishop had been there again, pulling her back roughly onto a hard stone slab as a Gith pulled her hands and feet away from her, fastening her with manacles by wrists and ankles. She was naked and vulnerable, and looking down at herself she could see real, gleaming scars of the waking world along with bruises and scratches that belonged to this nightmare universe. When one of those green skinned, mottled Githyanki had climbed onto the slab, onto her, she had pulled at the chains until her wrists and ankles bled, but it was no good. She had dreamed that she screamed, but that was no good, either.

Upon waking with a start, Isaviel could find no comfort in the way Bishop's arm had snaked around her waist as they slept. Apparently she had not made any sounds in her sleep as she was wont to when she had such dreams, for the one by her side had neither woken nor stirred. She felt tired and sore – no wonder she had dreamed as she did. Neither she nor Bishop had proved gentle lovers in reality and she could see the marks on her skin as surely as she could see the scratches on his back as he shifted, not waking as she slid away from him. Standing, she did not look around but rather pulled on her clothes, sweeping her hair up into an untidy bun and leaving the room to pull on her boots.

Once outside, with her mother's cloak about her shoulders, the Moon Elf made her way quickly to Sand's house. The hour was early, but somehow she knew he would be up, even if he was not expecting her knock on the door and looked around at her with startled eyes as the golem opened the way for her. He was seated at his table, just finishing a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast.

"Ah, I understand," the wizard half-smiled after a moment by way of greeting, raising a mockingly chiding eyebrow as he stood to walk over to a cabinet of potions.

"You understand what?" Isaviel asked irritably, but Sand just smirked at her over his shoulder.

"Don't think I haven't seen this all before. Young women normally only call at my house for one reason at this early hour – for a potion to keep secret what they did the night before."

"If you tell Duncan, I will kill you," Isaviel told him earnestly, but he just laughed fully then, handing her the glass bottle with a shake of his head.

"I would like to see you try, truly. I imagine you know what to do? That should last you long enough for you to realise this 'mystery man' is not worth your time. And am I right in ascertaining that it is not the matter of telling Duncan what you did that you fear – for I am sure he suspects you do such things –, but rather telling him the identity of the man?"

Isaviel was quick to curse at him rather rudely, and he tutted at that. When she offered him money for the potion, however, he just waved it away with a roll of his eyes, pulling a chair out from the table for her to sit.

"Breakfast? You look tired," the wizard noted.

Nodding half-gratefully, Isaviel sighed and leaned her forehead against her hand. When he placed the food down in front of her and she began to eat it hungrily, she saw that his expression was more serious than she had expected.

"You have been sleeping badly," Sand stated, and she could not deny it, "I wish there were a potion to take that away, as well. Is it of West Harbour that you dream?"

"Mostly," the Moon Elf admitted, flinching at the memories of her most recent dream, "Sometimes…it ends worse for me personally."

"Ah. And this life of violence and crime? Do you not wonder whether that would make your dreams worse? Add fuel to the clarity, the guilt, maybe?"

"I feel no guilt," Isaviel denied, ignoring the twisting in her stomach when she said that. _I let them burn. They died. So many died._

"I will not patronise you by pretending to agree," Sand told her coolly, sitting back now that he had finished his breakfast and watching her closely instead, "You do realise that he will betray you, do you not?" he said softly at length, and Isaviel stilled.

"Yes," she agreed quietly.

"And do you not fear what that could lead to? What of the others? If you see the truth of this, of how little you should trust him, why do you allow yourself to love him?"

"I do not love him," Isaviel denied vehemently, "What is there in one like him to love? And as for avoiding it…I think I would just be trying to stave off the inevitable. If I push him away he will just betray me sooner, rather than later."

Sand watched her closely then, and chose not to voice his thoughts. Still, his fear remained – surely an early betrayal would be better? The further she became embroiled in a search for the shards, the worse a betrayal would hit her, especially one from Bishop.


	14. All the Trappings of Honour

The morning air was cool, yet lacked the bitterness of those lands beyond the warming waters flowing from the Crags. Rain had fallen in the night, she could smell its ghost on the air, but the sky was clear now, the rising sun gleaming golden and bright above the swelling waters as Isaviel trod a barefooted path along the coastline. The city of Neverwinter was but a short walk away, back through a half-hearted stretch of woodland. The folded sails of moored boats flapped weakly in the fragile wind a short distance to the right – today was not a day for seafaring.

Smoke could be seen drifting lazily up to the blue sky from those Docks District houses whose inhabitants were just rising. Someone was baking bread, and its scent drifted briefly by before being drowned by the briny reek of the sea and all the rot of the district close by. The Moon Elf sighed, looking back at the high wooden walls just ending to curve about the harbour past the shoreline.

All was still and very quiet – just the soft sigh of the wind through the trees behind her, the ripple of the waves on the hard, pebbled beach. Her feet ached from those unrelenting, cool stones, but she was glad for the distraction. The scar on her chest ached, as did the still-healing cut on her side from the Githyanki at Shandra's house. She had acquired other troubles and minor wounds along the weeks of her travels – as well as some significant responsibilities. Now that these shards were with her – always, as it turned out – it would seem that she had no choice but to collect them, to have the power over them to stop others who would seek them from coming after her. For even if she were to relinquish those four that she held, she could not give up the one in her chest – and retain her life. She wondered at why it was that all of them had chosen to stay with her to see her quest through to the end; Elanee, Khelgar, Casavir, Grobnar, Neeshka, Qara, Bishop, Shandra, as well as Duncan and Sand, and maybe Cormick too.

The peace and the cool air was a relief – to be away from the city for a while, at least for a short time, brought some comfort. Dropping her boots to one side, the Moon Elf climbed onto a boulder to draw her knees up against her chest and stare out at the sea, her cloak pooling about her. It was only then that the air changed. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, as she heard the slightest shift of pebbles far back, and then the smell of burned conjuring salts and other ingredients pushed aside the pungent stink of the Docks District. There was no point running from a group of mages that large, one that could all but deceive her of their arrival.

"Who are you and what do you want with me?" she asked, hearing just one set of footsteps approaching steadily across the pebbles towards her.

"Isaviel Farlong," a low, carefully spoken voice declaimed, "It has taken us some time to find you."

She slipped from the boulder to turn around and face those behind her to see a dozen or so grey-robed mages, their vocation proven by the badges serving to clasp their blue cloaks around their necks. Mages of the Cloaktower of Neverwinter, no doubt.

The one who had approached her waited calmly for the Moon Elf's response. Dressed in a chainmail shirt and plain breeches, he was clean shaven and blonde, fair of face but blandly so, with bright blue eyes that had the same righteous gleam as Casavir's. The jewelled hilt of a bastard sword twinkled on his hip, the curve of a shield arcing over his shoulders from its place strapped on his back. But it was the insignia on his blue over-tunic that spoke unsettling volumes to Isaviel: the half-closed, all-seeing eye of Neverwinter, and its three falling tears. He was one of the Nine, the warrior-council and guardians of Lord Nasher.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Moon Elf demanded now when no answer was forthcoming, watching the man warily after sweeping her gaze slowly over the wizards arrayed behind him.

"I am Sir Nevalle…"

"Of the Nine, I know."

"…and I am here to command you to return to the city, Lieutenant," the term dripped with derision, as if he knew that her post at the Watch was a rather half-hearted one, "You have been accused of the destruction of the village of Ember, of burning it to the ground and utterly massacring its people."

"W-what? That pathetic place? Why would I waste any of my time with that?" the Moon Elf's thoughts immediately went to the boy who had left with Bishop's dagger – he had said this would happen, though not in so many words.

Sir Nevalle's eyebrow quirked at her words, and he remained unmoved.

"The city of Luskan would beg to differ. They would have you fall to their Low Justice – and that means no justice at all."

"And I imagine you are the one sent to deliver me to them?" Isaviel asked grimly. There were shadows nearby, but their pull was only weak – she doubted she could use them to escape. Automatically, her hands went to the hilts of her kukris.

"Though we do not pretend to pass judgement of our own at this moment, we – Neverwinter – would see you face High Justice; at least that would mean a trial. We know not to believe Luskan's lies – and we wish to see Tyr's truth brought to light."

"And how do you propose this?" Isaviel asked sceptically, herself not trusting the smug look in this unfamiliar man's eyes.

"We propose that you become a knight – it is the only way that Luskan cannot have you, and that you can stand a chance of a fair trial," a familiar, slightly nasal, carefully spoken voice rang out and Isaviel watched in bemusement as Sand stepped towards her from behind the mages.

"Sand? What are you doing here?"

"Sand is an agent in Neverwinter's service. He is to help you assess the situation and gather any evidence for your innocence before the trial," Nevalle explained, but Isaviel just stared at the wizard who she had trusted, beginning to doubt every moment she had spent with him, "Becoming a knight, even a squire, would be enough to keep you from Luskan's 'courts'. I do not believe you guilty of this crime, but if you cannot prove your innocence then we – Neverwinter – will have no choice but to hand you over to the Luskans. Now, if you will excuse us, I will leave you to Sand – he will explain the rest. I suggest you return to the city forthwith – you cannot leave until you are a squire, for your own safety."

And just like that, before Isaviel could respond, a great white light rose up around Nevalle and the Cloaktower mages. When it had faded, they were gone, leaving just Sand facing the young Moon Elf, looking rather guilty. She had left his confidence just an hour earlier, and now she watched him warily.

"Isaviel, know that although I do work for Neverwinter I have never informed them of anything regarding you. All I have said and done has been honest…"

"But you just happened to neglect to tell me that you work in the service of that city?"

"A city that is, you must surely have noticed, seeking to aid you now when the Luskans could simply drag you away to your death," Sand pointed out, and the Moon Elf could not deny it, "I suggest that we return to The Sunken Flagon. Duncan will want to hear of this…ill turn of events – and I would suggest he rouse your friends as well. Their help will be invaluable in this, I would hope."

* * *

A grim mood had soon settled over the place, a large back room in The Sunken Flagon furnished with tables and couches around which Isaviel's friends and allies had dispersed themselves to hear the news. Only Neeshka and Bishop were absent. One vast window brought in the bright lights of morning, but no one was buoyed by the promise of a new day. Duncan was standing by the door, eyes blazing, arms folded across his chest.

Khelgar growled a curse into the silence which followed Sand's explanation of the accusations against Isaviel – and the fate of Ember. Elanee stared out of a window, looking quite queasy – although it was not clear whether this was for the destruction of the town or the threat to Isaviel.

"This must be some mistake – surely not even Luskan would do such a thing as massacre one of its own villages to frame you? And why would they do it? What have you ever done to Luskan?" Shandra asked in disbelief.

"Garius, member of the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan, is also the wizard I heard _commanding_ Moire to assassinate me," Isaviel pointed out.

"And never expect any honour or mercy from Luskan. They will take what they want when they wish," Casavir put in, his voice grown cold and hard, his expression just as stony.

"Are ye sure the only way to stop them getting to her is to have her become a squire? No offense, lass, but it would suit ye ill," Duncan sighed, his tone far softer and calmer than the Moon Elf had expected, given his furious look. But the slight shake in his voice betrayed his real, barely restrained feelings.

"It would only be for show," Sand rolled his eyes, "There is hardly cause for concern on that count. But Isaviel, you will need to report to Sir Grayson, to become his squire, as soon as possible. He will explain to you what you need to do beyond this. After that, we should head for Port Llast. It is the closest Neverwinter-owned city to Ember, and we can use that as our base to travel to the town and inspect it for clues."

"Then that is what I will do," Isaviel sighed, standing from the couch into which she had sunk, and looking around the room at those who had sworn to help her, "If you wish to accompany me, you must know that I intend to travel for Port Llast as soon as I have become a…squire. So have your things packed and ready – we might be gone some time if we're to uncover the truth of whoever has set me up."

The others nodded in agreement, though Qara huffed and left the room first, with a glance back at Isaviel that made the Moon Elf wonder if the sorceress wished they _had_ been the ones to burn the town. Duncan and Sand excused themselves shortly as well, followed by Elanee and Khelgar. Eventually, Isaviel was left with just Casavir and Shandra for company.

"Remind me to deny knowing Qara if I ever make it to the trial. She is absolutely the most likely person to have burned down that town for fun," Isaviel sighed, and that at least brought a slightly uncomfortable smile from Casavir as he approached her.

"Let me accompany you to the house of this Lord Grayson to begin the process of becoming a squire," Casavir offered, "I was never knighted, but I did serve as a squire in my youth. I may be of some help to you."

"Then that help would be welcome," Isaviel tried to smile, and he nodded firmly before leaving as well, probably to wait anxiously at the door for them to set off immediately.

"I want to join you, as well," Shandra said now that it was just them, her blue eyes intent and serious, "Whatever this is, it isn't fair – and I won't let anyone treat you like that. You've helped me – you've _saved_ me more than once. I want to at least try to…start to… return the favour."

"That's quite a turnaround for someone who doubted they could trust me just hours ago," Isaviel noted uncomfortably, rocking back on her heels when the taller woman came closer.

"Well, I've had some time to think," Shandra's words were slow and steady, "And I've seen how much your friends care for you. There might be times when they haven't agreed with what you've said, and maybe what you've done, but they still follow you. I don't think a _paladin_ would vow to help you if you were capable of burning a town of innocent villagers."

_Ah, but they weren't so innocent, were they? They left me to bleed in that paladin's arms the last I knew of them. West Harbour was innocent, but it still burned. Its people still screamed. _But the Moon Elf just smiled and nodded, letting the woman squeeze her shoulder.

"You are tough, Isaviel," Shandra offered, "I certainly can't deny that. I don't know how you do it, honestly. A shard in your chest, dark wizards threatening to have you killed, a whole city trying to frame you for murder… and still you can smile."

"Learn to swing a sword a little better than you swung that broom and you might feel the same," Isaviel grinned, and the woman laughed in acceptance, "If anyone sees Neeshka or Bishop tell them to come and see me in the gardens. I have a few things to think through before we go to see Lord Grayson."

"Of course," Shandra nodded non-judgementally.

Thus they parted – the woman heading back to the tavern and a warm breakfast, the Moon Elf stepping through the door to the right, in the opposite direction, and out into the mess that Duncan called his back garden. Broken glass and snapped chair legs lay about the flagstones, themselves twisted and broken by the roots of an established oak tree in the corner of the yard. A few weeds grew here and there, but there were no aesthetically pleasing flowers, not even a pen of chickens or something mildly distracting. There was just a small, poorly painted bench against the wall of the building with a diminutive, dirty pond ahead of it. Little even could be seen of the city here, for the walls around the yard were tall, affording a view of a few stunted chimneys, the glint of the rising sun…and the taller, more stifling walls of the city itself looming up to the left. That way waited freedom.

A short time passed in which Isaviel found her eyes increasingly drawn to the murky little pond ahead, mostly clogged with algae and some more tenacious water plants. Leaning forward, her elbows against her knees, the Moon Elf peered down at the closest patch of water to see herself reflected against the blue of the sky. Her deep blue hair had fallen free over one shoulder to tumble down her leg, framing a face which…seemed somehow so unfamiliar. She had always been aware that others found her beautiful – and used it to her advantage often, as well. Her face was delicate and angular, as was common among Elves, symmetrical with high cheekbones and prone to an appearance of youthful innocence. Even when vacant she looked to be smiling just a little, and people seemed drawn to that.

Isaviel had thought she was one who appeared easy to trust – as misleading as that was. But Shandra had acted in any way but that – it reminded her that she had been forced to change a great deal since returning to West Harbour. There were scars visible now; one faint but pinkish remaining on her neck, another less appealing one running straight down from just below her right eye towards her chin. She was thinner, and her expression seemed just that little bit too grim. Her bluish skin was paler, her large golden eyes, so very markedly not human, significantly sadder. There was that cut from Shandra's chamber pot still healing on her cheek, though that looked unlikely to scar, and bruises and scrapes marred her legs, arms and back though these were not visible. She was no longer beautiful. Instead, now she looked brutal.

Anger began to well, a great frustrated bitterness. If only it weren't for the shards, none of this would ever have happened. She could have been free to run the streets of Neverwinter with Neeshka. Now she had a city and some mysterious ancient evil to contend with, just in case the Githyanki and the chaos at West Harbour had not been enough for one lifetime.

The Moon Elf was still staring at her reflection, frozen by the horrible realisation of what she was now and struggling against her warring emotions when she heard the door just to her right creak open. A tall form stepped out, dark against the sun, and she did not turn around.

"What's all this talk of burning?" Bishop's voice cut through the gentle sighs of the wind and made her heart skip, somersault…and restart.

"Did no one tell you on the w-" Isaviel began, but one look at his face showed all – there was a great rage in his eyes as he sat beside her on the bench.

"Those Luskan-bred bastards," he snarled, "Every single one of them is without morality or reason – it has to be them. They're the ones who've set you up," his sincerity startled her as his hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer to lean his forehead against hers and stare intently at her.

"Yes," she agreed as steadily as her racing heart would allow.

Part of her had been convinced that once he had slept with her he would discard her. It had been that way with others in the past – and there had been times she had been the one to do the discarding. Instead, there was a cruel tilt to Bishop's mouth now as he no doubt considered all the ways to kill those Luskans who he had shown such a hatred for.

"Casavir said that you were from Luskan," the Moon Elf pointed out softly, watching his eyes carefully as she spoke.

"Yes," he growled, his hold on her just that little bit tighter now, "But that doesn't mean I have to like Luskans, or their city. I was in their army, I saw how they worked and I know what they're like. Burning a town is just one of the minor things that they do to make sure you can't sleep at night."

"Then I will prove my innocence, however I can…even if it means becoming a squire for some wretched high-born Neverwinter lord. And then when that is done, I will hunt down all of those people, Luskan or not, who were responsible for setting me up like this. And I will kill them all," Isaviel vowed fiercely.

That made Bishop grin, his eyes flashing, kissing her slowly until she sighed against him and her arms slid around his neck.

"Yes," he agreed, "There is nothing I like more than killing…Luskans. I do wonder why they are bothering at all, though. With the war going on against Ruathym, they won't want to risk a war with Neverwinter as well, surely."

"It has to be that 'Black Garius' at the Hosttower. From what I heard he seems to follow some shadow cult and he fears the shards I am collecting. He seems to know an awful lot about this – and if I'm going to put two and two together I'd guess that the shards have something to do with the King of Shadows's defeat – and to do with him."

* * *

Sir Grayson Corett's house stood just outside the Blacklake, unsettlingly close to where Leldon had once made his sham life as a rich merchant. Still, it was a large, well-kept house with elaborately decorated gables and a small porch held up by white-washed pillars. The gates through the gardens had been almost as impressive, as had the twin ponds either side of the broad flagstone path, each sporting a maudlin fountain of the heavy-lidded crying eye of Tyr. A well-dressed servant had answered the door before they could knock, and invited them inside to a broad entrance hall decorated with the heraldry of a loyal knight of Neverwinter, The Knights' Vow carved in a thin trip of marble at the joining of the pale walls and high ceiling.

Isaviel had been fidgeting for some time, watching the unsettling eyes of Tyr dotted all about the entrance hall– emblazoned on the swords and shield over the arched doorway ahead, on the central rug and the flag by one wall. Sand had been pacing more and more ferociously in front of her as silence persisted, Shandra staring about herself in wonder at the wealth of the place, while Casavir seemed the only one unfazed by the situation, just waiting, still and blank.

Before they came Sand had insisted that both Isaviel and Shandra dress 'as well as was possible, given the circumstances', which had involved some significant hunting through all the possessions Moire had left behind. Shandra had no belongings from her old home and little other money to speak of, so they had been forced to spend some undeniable effort in finding any clothes among Moire's collection which might fit her taller, more curvaceous – and muscular – physique. In the end they had uncovered a suitably long blue dress at the bottom of a cupboard. The item looked unsettlingly to Isaviel as though it had been made for Moire in pregnancy – or at least a faked pregnancy, for the former Thieves' Guild mistress had been renowned for her disguises. As well as this, the garment, though not ill-fitting, and certainly flattering, still seemed to suit Shandra poorly, for she had become less self-assured and far quieter in the dress, as if conforming to all that it implied she should be. Still, beneath those skirts she still had her farmer's working boots.

For Isaviel it had taken a great deal of persuasion to tempt her away from her decision to finally get to wear the clothes she intended for her time as a fraud Waterdhavian emissary. Finally Sand had pointed out to her the need that she appear as unthreatening as possible, as uncontroversial – someone who the audience at a trial would never think could burn a village. Eventually she had relented and agreed to wear a pale dress, embroidered around the neck with green vines. She had proceeded to conceal some six daggers about her person, while she continued to wear the belt containing the shards, though her kukris had been removed.

After an uncomfortable length of time Sir Grayson appeared through the tall door ahead, a benign expression upon his lined, bearded face and his identity unmistakable from the heraldry on his cloak clasp as well as the doublet he wore displaying the eye of Tyr yet again. He nodded quickly to Sand, clearly already familiar at least on some level with the wizard, skirting his gaze past Shandra without even a thought and automatically looking to Casavir. The paladin was the only one among them still armoured – though not armed – and perhaps the Neverwinter knight had expected the one accused of burning Ember to at least look imposing and martial. He only took in Isaviel's presence when Casavir looked pointedly to her, too. Surprise flickered across the knight's face, along with something very much akin to distrust, before he smiled kindly once more, moving to shake hands warmly with each of them.

"Blessings of Tyr be upon you, Isaviel Farlong," he said with apparent sincerity when he reached the Moon Elf and she had introduced herself, his voice unexpectedly high and softly spoken, "I am Sir Grayson. Sir Nevalle has told me of your predicament, and it so happens that I am in need of a squire. This is…unusual to say the least, and at such short notice. Normally prospective squires spend months – even years – proving themselves before they are permitted to enter the nobility. But Captain Brelaina and Sir Nevalle both vouch for your character and your ability. And I have heard of your exploits at Old Owl Well from my good friend Sir Callum. Still, count yourself lucky to avoid years of caring for my horse and scouring the rust from my arms and armour. Your need is great – so I will take you as my charge to allow justice to be done."

He stepped back now, looking more confident when he could see just how out of place Isaviel felt. She watched him uncomfortably for a moment, wondering what was meant to happen next.

"So…that's it? I'm now a squire?" she asked a little incredulously, which made the knight laugh.

"Not quite yet," he told her, "But years of service will be passed over in your case, it is true. My sword is sworn to Lord Nasher, Neverwinter and Tyr. And it falls to me to teach you chivalry, so that you will not dishonour me overmuch as your knight."

That made Isaviel wince. How much she had tried to run from this! This man's serenity was overwhelming and unsettling – he was certain in his righteousness and the reliability of Neverwinter's law. As one who had worked against that law as far as she could whilst in the city, Isaviel naturally had some misgivings about how she was going to fit in as a chivalrous knight. Somehow Sand's promises that this would all be for show began to sound hopelessly hollow, and she shot him as dirty a look as she could before answering with a smile she hoped was sweet, even through her scar and cuts.

"What is it that I must do?" she asked at last. _Honour_. A word that filled her with dread, "And I have no intention of _dishonouring_ you in this," the Moon Elf added, hoping her words did not carry so much sarcasm audibly as they did in her mind.

"Good," Grayson seemed satisfied at least, "I have heard that you are capable of defending yourself, so we'll not discuss that. The brotherhood of knights is one bound by the ideals of chivalry and honour – two codes I am sure your paladin friend here knows a thing or two about," he sent an intimidated smile up at Casavir, whose blue eyes shone so brightly back at him, "A brotherhood…ahem…and a sisterhood of course. Without honour, a knight is nothing more than an animal with a sword. To be a knight is to lead a life of duty and responsibility. We are bound by a code that prescribes your every action."

"Ah, the vows," Sand noted with a nod, turning to the Moon Elf with unbridled sarcasm dripping in his tone, "Listen carefully, Isaviel. These are important."

"Indeed they are," Grayson nodded seriously, and began to count off the ideals on his fingers, "To be brave and to be valorous in battle against your enemies. To know no fear in their presence. To be just and to be righteous, to embody and to uphold the laws of your lord and land. To be respectful to your enemies and kind to your fellows. To protect the weak and those who cannot defend themselves. All squires have these rules impressed upon them, by rote and lash. But I suspect you are mature enough to take the lesson without the cuffing."

This was all starting to sound very familiar to Isaviel – Merring had taught her that these were the ideals for a monk of the Sun Soul, or indeed for the Even Handed. All those lessons from her youth seemed to echo before her, and she felt like a child again, learning to kick a block of wood in half and to meditate in the silence of the marshes.

"Knowing the code of conduct is important for a knight or squire," Grayson continued when the Moon Elf could only nod half-heartedly at him, and he gestured at the vows around the wall, "But living by that code is paramount. To be a knight is also to live a life of service to your lord and realm. You will be expected to perform certain duties for the crown, when the time comes. Given your unique circumstances that can wait until after your trial. However, there is an observance that cannot be postponed – the vigil."

"And what might that be?"

"Your vigil is a time of reflection and contemplation. It is a sacred tradition…all who would become squires spend a night in the Solace Glade. Ordinarily you must spend the night alone. However, given that you have not yet been schooled in the ways of chivalry or honour, I suggest that we make an exception and allow…Casavir, is it? Yes? Casavir here to take the vigil with you, to ensure you know the proper ideals and expectations."

"I…" Isaviel could feel the need to blush, for how suitable it was that she should spend one night with Bishop, where honour held no sway, and the next chaste and educated in chivalry with Casavir, who was now watching her expectantly, "Yes. That sounds…reasonable."

"Indeed. I am honoured that you believe one such as I worthy of this," Casavir added humbly.

"Of course," Grayson nodded almost absently, "I suggest that you and your paladin friend report back to me at sunset and I shall escort you to the Glade. On the next morning I will welcome you into our brotherhood, and the service of Neverwinter."

No words had ever weighed so heavily on Isaviel's heart.

* * *

"Every future squire and knight of Neverwinter's history has come here to contemplate their new station," Sir Grayson Corett told Isaviel with a certainty that was so serene it was almost lulling, though she could barely hear him over the chattering of her own teeth, "To Helm, Tempus, Torm and Tyr have prayers been given. Think on that; once your instruction is over, pray to whichever god it is you have in your heart, or perhaps clear your mind and think of nothing."

"Thank you, Sir Corett," Casavir said gravely from where he crouched by the newly growing fire. They had collected as many free branches as they could from the Neverwinter Wood, within whose outermost reaches they waited, to build that fire against the unusually icy air rushing about them that night.

"I will leave you now," Sir Grayson smiled, nodding to them both and beginning to turn back towards his waiting guards, "When I come for you in the morning you will rise as a squire of Neverwinter."

"I look forward to it," Isaviel replied – at least, she would be hoping for the warmth of a bed in The Sunken Flagon after this vigil.

Once Sir Grayson and his men had left, Isaviel was quick to join Casavir by the fire, drawing her cloak tightly about herself and perching on a low rock, her back to the pool that made up the centre of the glade. It was a pretty spot by day, she expected, with tall, swaying grass, a blossom tree leaning idyllically over the water. The trees of Neverwinter Wood leaned in all about, dark and mysterious in the deepening gloom, the wind rushing through their shadowy leaves.

The stars were out in hosts, glinting and gleaming bright and silvery overhead, and close by sat Casavir, bright blue eyes shining in the firelight, like two more stars that fell from Tyr's realm to judge her. His expression was mild, however, and he had donned a simple tunic and trousers for the vigil in place of his armour. Nor was his hammer by his side, but he seemed comfortable without it, in spite of the clear danger they faced by leaving the city walls. Isaviel was not so trusting – Luskans seemed to know a great deal about her, so why would they be ignorant of her whereabouts now?

"You seem uncomfortable, Isaviel," Casavir noted frankly at last, his deep voice carrying an extra rumbling weight in this quiet, chill night.

"I can't help but fear the Luskans will know of this. How daring will they be? They have already destroyed one of their own towns. It does not seem such a great leap to assume they would come after me now, when I am at my most vulnerable," the Moon Elf gestured down at herself – they had not allowed either of them to go armed to the vigil, though she had concealed a few of her shuriken in the pouches on her belt for the shards. She was thankful for the long dress at least – it was proving a good choice for this cold weather.

"No, that is not what I mean," the paladin shook his head unexpectedly, and Isaviel watched him almost warily, hugging her legs to her chest and resting her chin on her knees, golden eyes large and reflective in the darkness, "You are uncomfortable around these knights, and their requirement that you become a squire for one of them. Is it their expectation that really makes you feel so ill at ease?"

"I thought you were here to teach me about chivalry and honour codes, not probe me for truths of my soul," Isaviel complained, but her frown was half-hearted. His words had stirred something in her, and she found her eyes locked to his pale, handsome features. There were too many truths she did not want to contemplate.

"I served under the Greycloaks of Neverwinter for ten years," he told her softly, now staring thoughtfully into the fire, "I am a lord's third son, and I was intended for knighthood. He sent me to squire for many years, and I did my duty. I took the vows you have taken – to serve and protect and obey. To be just and righteous and honourable, and to live by the code of chivalry. I have done so for all of my life, where I can. But knighthood was not what I wished for. The chivalry they expect of you is to be kind and polite, it is true. But it also comes with a level of pride that never suited me. A pride in the nobility of your birth, that which is supposed to set you above all about you. When my father died in the great plague of Neverwinter, the Wailing Death, I met the chief priest of Tyr in this city, Oleff. In him I saw all that I wish to be – kindness without judgement, honesty without questions. To follow a path of good, and to do it with an honour that means to do that which you will not regret because you know that only the most kindness can come of it. To allow real justice for all, to expect nothing in return, for not all souls are as at peace as are others. Not all have room for thanks or honesty or kindness. To oppose all who are cruel for the sake of cruelty, and who are brutal and unforgiving."

"And that is how you became a paladin?" Isaviel asked softly.

"It is," he looked back at her steadily, "Though Tyr is neither good nor evil, for he must make unfettered judgement, he is just. I wish to do good in this world, and through his honesty and justice I feel that I can achieve that. Oleff taught me all of these things, initiated me into the way of the Even-Handed and allowed me to train as a paladin. It was through this route that I was accepted into the Greycloaks, and though I was no knight I rose in the ranks and headed my own company."

"Why did you leave them?"

"Because justice was not served. Because good was cast aside. I will not allow those Luskans to have you – because you are not guilty; I know it for I am a witness. There is no judgement in that, only truth."

Silence fell between them, in which Isaviel's thoughts came to her in a great tide. She had held back her fears and beliefs for so long – this was the first quiet night in a long, long time. She had been running from it, and now there was even more to consider.

"It is not their expectation alone that I fear," Isaviel told him at length, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes now averted to a smouldering branch just ahead of her booted feet, "It is not really fear that I feel. Until Duncan told me the story of my mother's death, I had believed that my father and my trainer, Brother Merring, had been the ones to cut off my wings. That they had assumed me to be the kin of a devil or demon – Neeshka believes it yet. But now I know that it was not Daeghun who did that to me; he had implied as much to keep me from the brutal truth of my mother's cruel death, and my own treatment as a baby at the hands of demons. I was an unruly and angry child, though, and for a long time the scars on my back caused me pain enough that I would wake screaming in the night. That was why Merring began to instruct me as a monk I realise now, not because I was such a bad child. Doubtless they thought it would help my behaviour, though."

Casavir had to laugh at that, adjusting his position to face her more clearly, intent on her every word. He was still and calm and as she spoke Isaviel could feel the words rolling from her ever more easily.

"So he taught me how to meditate, to ease that pain," Isaviel continued, "And I was always very good at it. I could sit for hours and hours, even in the years when the pain had ceased. I learned that there were ways to join with shadows and shift with them, and my ability to do so has been growing with time. The psionic ways of the fighting of monks has always come naturally too, though it takes a great deal of concentration and discipline for me to master the techniques I learned in my younger years. A well placed hit with nigh on any parts of a limb can kill. I know how; I have used it."

"But you scorn those ways. You turned away from the path of the Sun Soul and the Even-Handed…"

"They turned me away," Isaviel corrected him sharply, but he shook his head.

"They did so because your heart was already lost to them."

"And why is that such a bad thing?" Isaviel shot back, "Why must I wish to be what others expect? My father and Merring expected me to be a monk. These knights expect me to be an honest and noble squire. There is no fun in the honour code you live by. I have no time for it."

"There is no fun in cruelty, either," the paladin told her firmly, and her anger flared for real.

"Then perhaps I am just evil," she suggested bitterly, remembering the way Zeeaire's blood had pooled.

"No," Casavir disagreed, watching her closely, "If that were so you would not be able to see the glow of my hammer. Trust me, there are some who cannot."

An uncomfortable silence fell. Staring into the fire, Isaviel fancied she could hear the screams of the dying, see the crumbling houses and the crumpling bodies of the dead, and the swarms of Bladelings and Githyanki in West Harbour. Those enemies had sworn that their hunt for her was done, only for this new threat, less obvious, to rise. How far was this linked to Black Garius, and how far was Garius linked to Luskan? She was certain she was missing something. They knew so little about the wizard and the cult he and Moire had been involved in. And along with all of that came the King of Shadows, an ominous enough name for anybody's nemesis.

"I regret that the lesson became so…personal," Casavir said at last, and the Moon Elf did not turn her gaze to look at him.

Only silence would do, and they would be there to the dawn.

* * *

"No one warned me we would have to come here," Isaviel hissed from where she was desperately trying to cower behind Casavir's large, once more armoured, frame.

"Your case is a most unusual one, Squire."

Sir Grayson's response held the patronising hints of one who spoke to a foolish child as he positioned himself ahead of them, in front of the vast polished wooden doors, overlaid with gilded iron decoration. They looked impossible to open. Isaviel wished it were so, but alas it was not.

The paladin glanced back at her over his shoulder with an amused smile that she suspected was a little smug, as well. The walk to Castle Never through the Blacklake District had been a most distressing one for the Moon Elf. She had never dreamed that she would be expected to endure an audience with Lord Nasher Alagondar, decades-long ruler of Neverwinter. A dream such as that would have felt more like a nightmare, she imagined.

They had at least been permitted to return to The Sunken Flagon briefly to make themselves 'presentable'. The hour was still early – Isaviel was glad for that, at least, because it meant that none of her friends, nor Duncan, had been awake to see her panicked expression. Somehow it did not feel like such a great concern that Casavir had been talking away her agitated strings of questions through the closed door as she changed into that embroidered tunic and silken blue leggings intended originally for her emissary disguise.

Once out of that wretched dress, as pretty as it had been, she felt somewhat more confident. When she had opened the door, still talking to Casavir, she had not hidden her smirk when he paused inadvertently at the sight of her new attire. The tunic she wore was more akin to the male style, and thus its lacing was significantly lower than would have been expected. His flustered response had drawn them even again, she decided.

Still, it had been intimidating to say the least to have the gateway ahead of Castle Never swung wide for just the three of them; Casavir, shining brightly in his armour, Sir Grayson full of prideful honourableness and Isaviel…trying to hide her fear. Beyond the plainer thick stone walls around the castle with its ramparts fairly swarming with well-armed guards lay a stark yard of very little greenery, just two large stables and a wide practice area joined to an armoury. But ahead, the building itself was vast and arching outwards, tiered and many-windowed, with marble reliefs depicting Neverwinter's history all across its façade. A tall portico was held up by two imposingly grave statues of a one-eyed man holding a huge hammer out before him, the symbol of the city engraved across his stone tunic which was painted blue and rimmed in bronze. Again a pair of gigantic doors had opened for them, and thus they had found themselves smoothly ushered into the atrium in which they continued to wait.

As at last those great gates were pushed open, each by two burly and heavily armoured guards, Isaviel found herself stepping into the most opulent room she could ever have imagined. It was not gaudy, but it was enormous. From the mosaic-floored atrium with its silken draperies they had stepped into a throne room. Though Nasher did not style himself a king, it would seem this place could be described in no other way. Its tall, clear windows were framed with intricate carvings, visible through blue and white marble pillars between which stood groups of talking retainers, maybe others waiting for an audience who held higher rank than Isaviel or her companions. The ground gleamed, and looking up she saw a high cross-vaulted ceiling, at the centre of which glowed a golden creation of the eye of Tyr, the pupil of which allowed a view of the blue sky. A dais had been set up directly beneath it with a large silver chalice upon it to collect the rainwater.

Isaviel felt like her legs fought her every step as they neared the silver-lined archway through which she could make out a smaller area - at its other side lay a set of steep white steps, and at the top stood a simple high-backed chair. An upright man sat there, she saw, a simple golden crown upon his balding head. He had a straight nose and small, deeply set eyes in a long, clean-shaven and unemotional face – though it was lined and clearly ageing. That had to be Lord Nasher.

As they passed under the arch, a gate fell with a slam behind them, separating them from the rest of the hall. Here it was quieter, and only a handful of nobly-dressed people were permitted so closely to the leader of the city. If there were any guards in this area, they were well-hidden. Sir Nevalle did stand to Lord Nasher's right however, and he watched them without a flicker of recognition – that seemed pointed. Were they to play a game, then?

"Ah, Sir Grayson…a pleasure to see you," the Lord of Neverwinter greeted coolly in a deep, resonant voice that rivalled Casavir's, with the addition of an imperious and all but grotesque well-spoken tone.

"It is my honour to serve, my Lord," Sir Grayson responded gently, bowing his head.

"What brings you here? You look troubled – and I received your message. Your urgency in turn troubles me,Sir. Who are these two who travel with you to my audience?"

"My Lord, it has come to my attention that this woman had been accused of murder, and is to be given over to Luskan for trial…and Low Justice."

Isaviel stepped forward as he spoken, and Nasher regarded her dispassionately for a moment or two before his icy blue eyes met her golden ones. She felt as though he were reading her very soul – and she was thoroughly unimpressed. This was just a man, an ageing – although still muscular, and evidently battle-scarred – man, well-spoken and prideful, and judging her on a stare. She did not incline her head to him once, and he seemed to note that defiance, for a smile threatened to twitch into being upon his face.

"What you have heard is true. Is that why you are here?" Nevalle asked, as if he knew nothing of the matter at all.

"I came here because this woman is my squire, and as such she cannot be removed to Luskan for trial. The law states that she must be tried by your hand, Lord Nasher, and at the will of the Gods above."

"What is this nonsense?" a tall woman inserted herself pointedly between Sir Grayson and the steps up to Lord Nasher, a sneer twisting her high-cheek-boned face, angling herself at the centre of the room so as best to show off one long bare leg through the slit of her colourfully patterned skirt, "This knight has no squire!"

"I would choose my words carefully if I were you, Ambassador, lest I think you are accusing one of my knights of speaking lies," Nevalle warned, and the woman turned on him.

"I only hear the words of a man shielding a murderer," she snarled up at him, unperturbed.

"Then let the accused speak," Lord Nasher interrupted, "What say you – does my knight speak truly?"

"He does. I have sworn the oath, and I have vowed to serve Neverwinter faithfully and well," Isaviel responded firmly, reciting the words Sir Grayson had told her to say. No one questioned how much a vow of hers might mean.

She kept her eyes trained on the woman in front of her, who now glared at her, her lip curled up as if from revulsion, one hand brought up to her throat where the thin fabric of her grey shirt ran out, as if threatened. This 'ambassador' had to be a Luskan. The theatricality with which she was moving and speaking suggested a very specific purpose. It was almost like she had expected this to happen.

"Then it is true," Sir Nevalle did not hide his smug smile, as the woman turned to watch him with hatred, "That means this squire will be tried here, Ambassador Torio. Not within your Luskan's walls."

"There is no justice in this," Torio spat, heading away to a side door, pausing as it opened to look back at the room once more before she left, "But I was a fool to expect justice in Neverwinter."

"Seeing that gloating smile stripped from her face pleases me more than you will know," Nasher sighed as the door slammed, relaxing visibly back against his chair, his expression a little softer as he regarded Isaviel again, gesturing for her to step closer, to the foot of the steps, "But this has bought you only a little more time, time you cannot afford to waste. We must find the truth of what happened at Ember, and quickly. But you cannot do that here. You have my leave to depart Neverwinter provided that you give your word to return for the trial in two weeks. Haeromos at Port Llast has already been contacted and will be expecting you. Try to run from this and you will only prove your guilt in the eyes of the Gods and the Sword Coast. The life of an exile is not easy when you must turn to either the City of Sails or the Lords' Alliance in that flight. Trust me, neither would give you shelter if you attempted such."

"So I have no choice," Isaviel shrugged, "To travel to Port Llast and see what evidence there is. But you speak as if you don't believe I did it. Why not just acquit me? You know I am innocent. And how can you be certain there will be evidence in my favour?"

"Though I cannot say that I trust you, or your good intentions – if indeed you have any," Lord Nasher told her with a sudden sneer, a look so derisive that Isaviel had the sudden urge to bury a dagger between his eyes, "I am also aware of Luskan's lies. Torio, our Luskan ambassador here, was clearly not surprised to see this turn of events. It is a show she desires, and I am certain they are hoping for a trial. That will mean that little evidence will be available, but it may yet be possible. These are false accusations after all, and that means the evidence against you will have been fabricated. There _must _be ways around them."


	15. Hatred's Messenger

**Thanks to Ann6022 for reveiwing - your comments are both heartening and useful! :P**

* * *

"Well. Isn't this place just the biggest disappointment you ever did see?" Bishop grunted once they had stepped through the wooden palisade around Port Llast, cutting it off from the long coastal curve of the High Road and the bordering grazing lands. But never from the crashing of the sea on the rocky Sword Coast.

"Oh, right, yeah," Shandra responded sarcastically, "Be careful where you tread. You might get some of the local culture on your boots."

Isaviel could only agree with the ranger, as they trudged through the mud against the cold, whistling wind that spiralled all about, down from the Frozen North and off from the Sea of Swords. Persistent rainfall had followed them all the way up the High Road from Neverwinter, and the mud churned beneath their boots still. It appeared the town had been built up along the sea front, a small natural bay whose curve the High Road had followed. The Crags rose up back to the south behind them, grey, snow-capped and vast, cutting off all sight of Neverwinter, that famed 'last bastion of civilisation' this far north. Houses here doubled as workshops or storehouses – the clang of a blacksmith's hammer or sawing of a carpenter's tools could be heard clearly through several open doors as they passed down the main central street. Stone buildings were anomalous – Sand had told them ahead of time that only two were to be seen in Port Last; the Head Office of the closest thing the town had to a mayor, and the only inn in the settlement.

Gulls screeched persistently, circling over by the piles of fish just being emptied from several large fishing boats into a great number of crates loaded along the nearest jetty. The townsfolk here had a grim, distrustful look about them, and Isaviel had already seen a few of those workers among the catches of fish muttering to each other as the group of five passed by. The rest of her companions had gone ahead to the Duskwood and Ember, to scout the places out while Isaviel had to report in at Port Llast. Sand had come along, and joining them had been Bishop, Casavir and Shandra.

Watching the cold stares of the townsfolk, the Moon Elf was becoming increasingly confident that somehow news of her accusations had preceded her – and that the trend was to believe in her guilt. It made her angry…and utterly unsurprised when a group of some four drunken brutes barred her path just ahead of the awning of the inn, a crumbling establishment of fogged-glass windows, rimmed by a 'garden' of gravel-covered ground. When she tried to move past them, one took her roughly by the arm and pulled her back. She heard the ring of steel as Bishop drew his sword in response, but her kukri was already pressed in cold threat against the inside of her aggressor's leg. One swift cut and he would bleed to death with no hope of help. Perhaps he was too drunk to recognise this danger, as he only tightened his hold on her arm, leering down at her.

"Stand aside and we will all be on our way as if nothing happened," she heard Sand offering calmly.

"Fine, fine," one man grunted with a smirk, raising his hands as if in surrender "We'll let you be. If you let us have _her_. She's the one that Luskan's looking for – we'd friends at Ember. And the bounty on her head's a pretty price. Not to mention that we aren't going to let her get anywhere near the last survivor – she's already killed all the others."

"Let's just kill these fools," Bishop snarled as Isaviel managed to wrench free.

"I am sure that will not be necessary," Casavir interrupted as he and Shandra joined the other three, having lagged somewhat as the paladin explained some trifling historical fact to the woman, who seemed to prefer to hear his voice than listen to it.

"Yes, I'm sure we can sort this out…" Shandra began, but the men looked to each other and laughed loudly.

"I think a night with her'd go a long way to covering the bounty we wouldn't get for the other one," another man grinned, and Casavir bristled, standing taller now with blazing eyes.

"Take that back, sir," he demanded stiffly, subconsciously shifting in front of Shandra as he spoke, his hand now on the hilt of his hammer, "Such actions would condemn you to the torments of the City of Judgement."

"Ha! Then we'll just take the Elf, then," the man moved to grab at Isaviel again, but she ducked past him, her kukri coming to his throat now.

Another of the men drew a dagger, lunged for her…and all at once everybody was moving, or imploring for peace. The one with the dagger reeled back with a cry of pain when Bishop's pommel smashed into his face, letting the first blood flow. Then two more went for the ranger, Isaviel still locked in threatening the man who had first moved against her. She and Sand had already discussed this near-inevitability, and had agreed that it would do no good to kill members of Port Llast's population if she was trying to acquit herself of a crime. No matter how tempting it might turn out to be.

Bishop dodged between the two men, one of whom was swiftly caught in a skilful arm-lock by Casavir, but the other was not so fortunate. The ranger had agreed not to kill…but he had not agreed to cause no harm. The first man he had attacked now slumped against the side wall of the inn, the group having fortunately congregated away from the windows and doors that might give a clear line of sight to onlookers. As well as having caused this, Bishop was still not content, spinning back around and bringing his longsword against the only other man's lower legs. This one screamed and crumpled to ground, blood beginning to run into the muddy ground as he continued to wail, hamstrung.

"Alright! We'll leave! Come on, help me with this bastard," the man Casavir held cried at last and Isaviel's aggressor moved away immediately to help him with the hamstrung man, the other following in their wake, still groaning.

Looking past the scene of their fight, which had come to be at the corner of the inn, Isaviel saw that several people had congregated just outside the doors or were peering fearfully through windows across the street. Several blanched when she turned their way, and the Moon Elf sighed. There would be no anonymity here – she would be a little too recognisable, and the Luskans had certainly been clear on their description of her.

"Your cruelty was not necessary, Bishop," Casavir berated angrily as the ranger took a few steps back to the others, coming up short at the paladin's words to sneer at them all.

"I don't follow your wretched code of honour, paladin," he responded curtly, "Those men would've been far less lenient with you. I wouldn't blame them, really…"

"Oh, enough of this! If you want to fight for your honour, Casavir, do it when I'm not there," Isaviel groaned, moving back into the street as the onlookers began to disperse, narrowing her eyes against the damp, icy air to look down the road which was suddenly so empty.

"Then what would you suggest now, oh mighty leader?" Bishop mocked angrily behind her back, but she did not deign to turn around to look at him.

"I think we should get to Haeromos's office," Isaviel nodded eventually as Bishop roughly re-sheathed his sword, Shandra still gawping at the blood spreading thinly over the mud.

"Indeed, that would be wise," Casavir nodded, frowning darkly, "It is a bad sign that the Watch has so little control over this town, though. It may be that he will be of little help to us."

"That's true, but we need to report to him. I'm not going to let the Lords' Alliance start calling for my head, too," Isaviel pointed out, which made Bishop grunt derisively to stalk past her in the direction of the only other stone building in town.

"Haeromos is a good, law-abiding man, if a little obtuse at times," Sand put in, pulling his dark cloak more tightly about his slight form and freeing his booted feet from the mud with two audible sucking sounds to gain her side. His pale grey eyes met hers calmly, but her answering stare was unreadable. She had trusted him more once, but he evidently knew more than he was letting on. She would not let him have any more of the upper hand than was necessary.

"Then I'd better not stay in his company too long," the Moon Elf responded, turning away and beginning to follow Bishop, the others keeping pace, "I have a feeling he won't like me much."

* * *

First Captain Haeromos did not match Sand's description remotely. His pinched face, with its thin, pale lips, had a permanently imperious expression, which tended towards a cruel sneer. He had a twitchy tendency to attempt to surreptitiously rearrange his thinning brown hair, which was supposed to have been combed so as to hide his significant bald patch. When his dark eyes settled upon Isaviel, they narrowed, exacerbating the deep lines around them, and grew even colder. A pair of guards remained inside his office, and another two waited just without as well once Isaviel and her four companions were shown into the simply furnished but large room, one long window to the right displaying the dreary world outside. It had started to rain again.

Casavir and Sand had both attempted to begin pleasantries, but Haeromos ignored them, staring straight at the Moon Elf instead as if he expected to murder her with a gaze. He had been seated at his cluttered desk, signing something with a long black quill, but now he stood slowly, resting his knuckles on the desk as he glared her way. Bishop tensed beside her, and Isaviel put a warning hand on his wrist. There could be no violence here – not unless he wanted to see them all hang in Luskan. It occurred to her briefly that he might want just that, after all. But she would not allow it.

"I'm surprised you had the courage to show up here. A lot of people in this town had friends, some even family, at Ember. Someone like you should have run when you had the chance. What kind of fool goes back to the one city where they can easily be tracked?"

"What kind of fool indeed?" Isaviel pointed out , rather enjoying his unnecessary liveliness. This man was clearly the real fool here, and she would enjoy tormenting him…if only to a point, "You must be Haeromos. I am most…disappointed to meet you. I heard I have to sign in with you like a good little lackey of Nasher's – or are you planning on claiming I ran, so you can cut my throat in my sleep? Mighty judgemental from a...man…wearing the badge of Tyr."

"Hold your tongue you worthless scoundrel. You'll hang one day, even if it's not for this," Haeromos hissed, disappointingly dismissing her now as he reeled in his anger, turning to Sand instead, "Wizard, I might not like it, but Nasher had ordered me to allow you to conduct your business here freely. But you'll be watched. If you have questions, ask them now. I am a very busy man."

"I heard someone mention that there was a survivor from Ember. I would like to speak with them," Isaviel told the First Captain, which gained her a long withering stare.

"Out of the question. She's been through enough, and besides, you won't like what she has to say."

"You almost say it as if you do believe in my innocence after all. If I were guilty, why would I expect anything less?"

"And Haeromos, you have sworn to Lord Nasher that you will allow Isaviel to search for the evidence she may need," Sand reminded him, "You disappoint me, cowering in the shadow of Luskan. They would not think of touching Port Llast, not now, not when they are at war with Ruathym – not for an adventurer, even one they clearly framed."

Haeromos blanched momentarily at those words, his dark eyes flickering over briefly at Isaviel and giving away his real, carefully hidden fears. But it was only fleeting, and he stood straight now and folding his arms across his chest, his face hard.

"We must have a right to speak with the witness!" Shandra exclaimed, and Haeromos's expression seemed to calm a little when he saw her, "I have been to Ember many times over the years. I know most everyone there, and a familiar friendly face would surely help. Isaviel does not need to see them alone."

"Very well," Haeromos sighed, nodding to one of his guards, who disappeared back through the door, "You may question the witness. But you will do so in my presence."

Several long moments of silence passed. Haeromos retook his seat and started sifting through papers like he was trying to pretend that no one was there, except the way he shuffled the documents had just a little too much aggression behind it. He looked liable to rip something, or break his quill. Shandra paced anxiously, something which Sand was watching with a bland stare. His handsome face no longer held the disappointment it had when first Haeromos had opened his mouth. Casavir stood by the furthest wall, beside the wizard, staring out of the window thoughtfully, but with anger in his eyes. She could fairly feel the waves of his righteous indignation. Meanwhile Bishop had leaned back against the wall beside her, spinning his bow around and around on one point against the tiled floor though it remained relatively impotent as a killing weapon, the guards having confiscated his quiver at the door. He was eyeing the First Captain with contempt.

Isaviel chose to watch the open door, staring down the narrow, dingy passageway that led to the main audience room of the building, wondering if this man Haeromos had been bought by Luskan, or if there was something else there, hindering his actions. His automatic anger seemed ludicrous, disguising a fear of Luskan most likely, as Sand had pointed out. Had they given him gold, or threats?

When the Moon Elf saw the young blonde woman being escorted down the passage towards her, Isaviel's heart sank. Not that useless, fearful little girl from Ember! Alaine was already staring at her with large, watery blue eyes. Her lips were trembling, her hands twisting in her long skirts as she faltered in her walk into the room. Whatever she had seen, or believed, it was enough to make her genuinely fear Isaviel.

"You!" Alaine gasped, just about keeping enough nerve to sound angry as well as fearful as the guards continued to flank her inside the office, keeping the door open in case of an escape becoming necessary, "Why would you bring her here?" she demanded, sounding sickened, as her eyes turned to Haeromos.

"Alaine, you survived! Thank the gods!" Shandra cried before the First Captain could respond, running to the young woman and hugging her tightly before the guards could respond. When Ember's survivor returned the gesture, the guards relaxed a little.

"They murdered everyone," Alaine whimpered as Shandra stepped back, staring at the older woman with fear in her big, pathetic eyes, "They…_she_ butchered everyone. It was horrible…"

"Shh, it wasn't her, Alaine. We're here to help…"

"No," the young woman was suddenly very firm, taking Shandra by the arm and shaking her head, her glance flickering only briefly over to Isaviel, "I know what I saw. No one at Ember had any weapons, some even surrendered, but she…she…"

"And if everyone died, how exactly did someone as pathetic as you survive?" Bishop demanded, employing a cold tone that had Casavir bristling uncomfortably, glaring at the ranger, and Sand huffing at such lack of tact.

"I-it was trade season," Alaine paled at Bishop's tone, her eyes going even wider, glazing over as if she somehow agreed with the cruel words, "The shipments into Ember had fallen off…I had been trading some of my father's goods down the South Roads, and when I headed back to town in the evening I heard the screams and saw the smoke. I had smelled the burning earlier, but I'd assumed it was a bonfire or something…"

"I think we are all familiar with camping, girl," Bishop interrupted.

Shandra glared at him, and then at Isaviel. _Can't you shut him up?_ she mouthed, but the Moon Elf just shrugged. She was struggling against her own anger at the injustice of this, and preferred to watch for the moment. Alaine was clearly an utter fool, or well deceived – likely both – for she was convinced of Isaviel's guilt and full of hate along with her fear.

"What happened after you saw this?" Sand put in now, a little more calmly but still with a sense of urgency, and Alaine's chin became to tremble.

"I left my wagon and went into town. That's when I saw the bodies…I saw _her_ kill the quartermaster while he was on his knees, begging for his life."

"You saw _me _do the killing blow? Was it just me?" Isaviel demanded, "And where did I…"

"Isaviel, please…" Shandra started, looking horrified as Alaine stared back at the Moon Elf, tears falling over her cheeks as she nodded sharply to every word.

"We don't have all year, girl," Sand interrupted now, stepping forward so that Alaine could see him clearly. In a sense he was the least threatening of their group – they had been forced to leave their blades and arrows behind at the door, but Bishop and Isaviel both retained their bows, while Casavir had his metal armour. Every one of them but Sand had an empty weapon holder or two about their person.

"Young lady," Casavir offered now, and Alaine's pale cheeks flushed when her gaze settled on him, "This matter is of the greatest importance, and we have only limited time. The trail of the town's killers is going cold, but your help could change that."

"There _were_ others but I didn't seem closely. I ran as hard as I could to Port Llast, and they have taken me in," now she turned to Isaviel, pointed at the Moon Elf as her expression eerily stony, anger taking over, her voice grown rough, "But _you did do it._"

"Or someone who looked the part – there are many magics that can cloak one's appearance…even allow one to change shape," Sand pointed out.

"I know what I saw."

"But that does not mean you know the truth behind what you saw, you foolish little…" Isaviel began, but stopped herself, flinging her hands up in frustration and turning away to stare out of the window, stepping past Bishop and leaning her hands on the sill. The rain was torrential and miserable, market stalls being buffeted in the wind as their owners attempted to remove them for the day.

"How exactly did you get away if you got close enough to identify her?" Sand probed, and momentarily Alaine looked confused, "You could not have run all the way to Port Llast, dear. Not even those running from death can run all day long."

"I…don't know. I just started running. I suppose they didn't see me…"

"Who else was there with 'Isaviel'? Were any of _us_ there, for example?"

"She had about a dozen of her friends with her…but none of you."

"Then they were not her friends, I believe…unless you saw a half-Demon girl?" Sand pointed out softly, "And that is interesting…a dozen, you say? Did you see a Gnome, perhaps a pouty teenage sorceress? A Dwarf, or maybe a young woman who always dresses in brown robes? No?"

"Well…no," Alaine frowned, "I believe they were all human – and all men."

"Well considering that there are no more among her company, that would make little sense. That must surely seed some doubt."

"But she could just have hired others," Alaine said shrilly, clearly desperate to see someone recognisable hang for this.

"Yes, my dear," Sand sighed, "But as your hesitation suggests, why would anyone waste their money on mercenaries for such a job when they have trusted allies who would follow one anywhere, despite their common sense? Er…no offense," he added this with a smirk, looking pointedly at Shandra, Bishop and Casavir.

"That's enough now," Haeromos broke in, "I'm sorry to have put you through this Alaine. Guards, please see that she reaches her quarters safely."

Once Alaine had gone, Haeromos looked to Isaviel with some significantly impatient expectation.

"Well," the First Captain prompted, "Do you have more of my time you would care to waste? Elsewise, I would gladly see you leave my sight."

"Must be something in the water," Isaviel suggested with a roll of her eyes to Bishop as she turned more fully to face Haeromos, "Unfortunately for you I do have more to ask before I can leave your wretched town. There is a man associated with Luskan…have you heard of Black Garius?"

"He is an archmage of some power," Haeromos nodded through his sneer, "Not someone you want to cross. Like many of the Arcane Brotherhood, Black Garius aspires to rule, regardless of what harm it may cause."

"That is a common attitude among the Hosttower mages," Sand pointed out, "But it is uncommonly notable in Garius."

"What worries me is that he may well succeed in his aim to rule," Haeromos admitted grudgingly.

"Why do you say that?" Casavir asked.

"He is amassing power at a pace I dislike. I suspect his Brothers are beginning to grow wary of him. Followers flock to his side like vultures to a battlefield. Two in particular keep me awake at night; the woman Torio Claven and the giant brute Lorne."

"Ah, and so the pretty little circle reveals itself," Sand nodded, a wicked smile coming to his face. Isaviel shared the look. This made a lot more sense.

"Torio you might know as Luskan's ambassador to Neverwinter. A treacherous snake that one. The other one, Lorne, lacks Torio's guile, but compensates for it with brute force. He's a savage fighter, and extremely good with a blade. I suspect he handles most of Black Garius's dirty work," Haeromos paused, staring down at his table, then looked back up to Isaviel, his expression icy once more, "Now the lot of you out. I have work to do."

* * *

Port Llast's only innkeeper, the dubiously proud owner of The Ruffled Sail, had proved a shrewdly non-judgemental man. It was correct payment and some relative peace that he needed, and he told them as much when he returned from showing Shandra and Casavir up to their rooms. They were all weary when they trudged into the inn, trailing mud and freshly fallen water. The main room, complete with a bar, was warm and dimly lit, with only one window to let in the daylight and a large fire around which a few tables with soft chairs had been arranged. It was not quite deserted – a few old men sat smoking, drinking and jesting familiarly in the far left corner, while another man of about their age swayed on a stool at one end of the bar. A young woman, dressed in mud-caked travelling leathers with a long braid of auburn hair sat at the other end, nursing a bowl of broth with one hand as she hungrily spooned the food into her mouth.

"Your newest recruit seems somewhat shaken from today's events," Sand remarked as he joined Isaviel and Bishop at the bar.

"Shandra, you mean? Casavir tells me she has taken to her daily combat practice better than most Greycloaks he has seen," Isaviel pointed out, but sighed, staring into her ale, "But you're right, and it worries me a little. We can't have her gagging at the sight of blood. There will be much more before this is over."

"But she knows that survivor, Alaine. They seem to trust each other, even care about each other. If we can, it would seem wise to use that to our advantage. That girl will inevitably be called as a witness at your trial," Sand pressed.

"She's a stupid little bitch with no sense. I'd sooner slit her throat," Isaviel groaned, and Bishop snorted at her words.

"Promise me you won't talk like that in the trial," Sand beseeched her, and she laughed bitterly at him.

"If they find me guilty – and if that little bitch is called up I don't see how they won't – will they hang me?" Isaviel felt a strange coldness stab through her heart at the thought – thus far she had managed to avoid such ideas, but Alaine's single-minded hatred had led her to doubts.

"No," Sand shook his head, "Hanging is a betrayer's death. You are not a betrayer, you would be branded murderer if you were to be found guilty. I believe your accuser has the right to choose your death."

"The Luskans," Bishop growled, "They'd burn you, don't doubt it. Some fake words about fairness, justice. Fire for fire."

"Fire has never done me much harm," Isaviel said a little feebly, "Whoever my father was, there's something in my past which means I don't burn."

"Qara's fires burned you," Bishop pointed out.

"Yes, and trust me, they will find a way," Sand nodded grimly, "Although…there is another option. It would not be possible to invoke it until after a failed trial, but if necessary, we could claim the right of trial by combat."

"And who would I fight?" Isaviel asked incredulously, "That harlot Torio? All the hosts of Luskan?"

"Of course not, and of course it would not be easy. You could always call up a champion, though. I imagine that's what Torio would do in your position," Sand told her with a roll of his eyes.

"The paladin would fight for you. And the Dwarf," Bishop grunted.

"I am not a defenceless little girl! If fighting is necessary, I will fight for my own life," Isaviel scowled, and that brought a smirk to Bishop's face.

"Hmm. Let's wait until later to think on that. It is a last resort, after all," Sand said, watching the pair with careful eyes, "If you need me I will be by the fire. It has been some years since I went a-travelling and I am certainly not used to all this mud and rain."

As Sand left, Bishop's eyes lingered on the auburn haired woman over to the left, a look akin to horror passing over his face before he composed himself. She seemed to sense him looking, for she turned around and blanched at the sight of the ranger, then looked to Isaviel with tired blue eyes. Her face was drawn and pale, her frame thin. She had a bow and quiver by her feet, but no other visible weapons.

"Bishop," she hissed.

"Malin," he agreed, his pretence at amiability dripping with mockery, "Still playing girl-of-the-wood?"

"I was wondering when you would drag your sorry carcass back to Port Llast," the woman, Malin, hissed in response.

"You waited for me," he sneered, "I'm touched. Then again, it's not like you could have tracked me down if you'd wanted to."

"I take it you two know each other?" Isaviel demanded with some annoyance. It was bad enough that she was being forced to lean back for them to have this hateful interaction, but they clearly also had some past knowledge of each other. That made her angry, as well as uncomfortable.

"You could say that," Malin shrugged, regarding the Moon Elf more steadily now, looking her up and down with no particular judgement clear in her eyes before continuing, "Liking him is another matter, however. You'd do well to think on that, whoever you are."

"This half elf slip of a girl here nearly got me…and herself…killed several times over while scouting the Luskan border. Impatience, incompetence…these things get scouts killed. And those are her most endearing traits, let's just put it that way. That's the trouble when you're not fully an Elf…and not fully human. It's like you've always got something to prove."

"Try telling Sand that and see what he has to say," Isaviel remarked, narrowing her eyes at Bishop's tone. She did not know if she should be offended, too, so she turned away from him and towards Malin, instead.

"What's your business here, anyway? I dread to think how he managed to wheedle his way into your life. Believe me, you'd do better without him."

"Watch your tongue, girl," Bishop warned, but Malin ignored him.

"I think that's for me to decide, not you," Isaviel responded sharply now, watching the way the two interacted. They looked to hate each other just a little too much. Oh, yes, there was definitely history there.

The Moon Elf was therefore substantially relieved when Bishop huffed, downed his drink, and stalked out of the inn's front door to seek the solitude of night. Watching him for a moment, Isaviel decided that she wanted a little more time to form her accusations towards him about this gangly auburn haired ranger beside her, so she moved to join Sand across the room.

"Wait," Malin hissed, taking her swiftly by the arm, though she pulled back quickly when the Moon Elf placed a warning hand on a kukri.

"What is it?"

"You have to stay away from Bishop. There's no love in him; there's nothing at all but hate. He doesn't care about killing – or…he care's about it so much it's the only thing he loves. Even more than himself."

"Mind your own business. I can take care of myself."

"You're jealous, I know, but…"

The Moon Elf's anger flashed at the words, wishing it weren't true, and she hit the ranger hard, the half-Elf's head snapped to the side, and she spat blood. She looked like she had expected it, and a slight smirk curled on her lips, hate in her eyes. When their stares met once more, Malin made no move to retaliate, but that smile was enough.

"You are a monster too, just like him," she told Isaviel with a steady voice that cut like cold, cold steel, "But he will destroy you if you let him."

Shrugging on her pack and bow, Malin stalked past Isaviel and headed for the little swinging door that led up to the bedrooms, not looking back once, but the Moon Elf followed her movements, her anger altered to a strange kind of sickness. It reminded her of doubt, regret and disappointment. She had always told herself that she did not care what others thought of her, but something about Malin's words had made her uneasy – even through her jealousy. Looking across the room, beyond the path the young ranger had taken, she saw Sand watching her thoughtfully, by the fire as he had promised. He had hung his cloak up close to the flames with his boots below that, as though some strange invisible person stood there with his back to her. Karnwyr sat gnawing on a bone beside those boots, still looking utterly bedraggled after the day's rainfall.

"I'll have no more fighting, girl, or you'll be out on the streets," the innkeeper was telling her as Sand gestured for her to join him, and she looked now towards the big, bushy-browed, bearded man at the bar, a little dazed.

"Yes, I know," she nodded absently and he raised a sceptical eyebrow at her as if he expected some apology, but she just turned with barely a thought and headed for the exit.

Stepping out into the night, the air was cold and gusty, battering at her cloak as only coastal winds could. The briny smell of the sea was all about, mingling with the lingering damp. The sky was pitch black with night-time cloud and the mud churned under her feet as she walked, past the spot where those thugs had bled earlier in the day and around to the right, closer to the coast, where the muddy ground gave way to a patch of grass before crumbling to hard, crunching gravel. Soon she espied a dark cloaked figure against the shifting cold swell of the sea. He was quite a distance away, standing at the very end of one of the jetties, leaning against the tall post to which a fishing boat had been moored. As she approached, she could not help but wonder at his thoughts, for he could not be admiring the view – it was too dark for human eyes, and none too pretty besides with all that cloud and endless, endless still water. The Sea of Swords was tame this night, but he was certainly not listening to its calming rhythmic slosh, either.

"We have to leave," Bishop said grimly as Isaviel approached, though he did not look round. She had not tried to quieten her footsteps, for then he surely would not have heard her.

"And where would we go?" Isaviel sighed, "It's the coward's way out – I didn't take you for a coward. But if you want to run, go ahead. I'm not your master, I won't stop you. I won't even bother judging you…" she was interrupted when he spun around suddenly, kissing her hard, dragging her body against his.

"That's not what I'm going to do," he growled against her.

For a moment she stared up at him with wide golden eyes, fearful of the emotions she saw in his, even as one hand twined into her long braid of hair, pulling her head back as he moved her around so that she was pressed against the wood post. She could feel the thick rope fastened around it to moor the boat there. She could hear it creaking in the swell…but then Bishop's free hand was travelling over her skin, as he kissed a line down her neck. When they drew apart a little, Bishop was grinning at her and she narrowed her eyes at him playfully.

"Weren't you just talking about running?"

"It's you they want, not me. And like I said, killing Luskans is a hobby of mine. You might be a fool for not leaving when you have the chance, but so long as I have the power to do…that to you, I'm staying."

_Have the power_. That was indicative of his outlook. Power. He knew he could control her – though he seemed to have forgotten she could match him in that, as well. And she meant very well to remind him of it, taking him by the hand and heading back to the inn. Two could play at this, and two would, especially when they had one more night after this one in Port Llast before leaving for the wilds and Ember.


	16. The Town That Burned

For Elgun, Port Llast was both a paradise on Toril, and a gods-be-damned curse on his soul. It was a refuge from years of fear and weariness, but it was a hell because he had to lie through his teeth just to earn a pint. And pints were all he lived for these days. He would need to earn more than one from his falsehoods to satisfy his thirst.

Every morning saw the same routine. He would waken with a pounding headache, the curtains in his room, chosen for their thickness, drawn tightly shut, as he fully expected to fear the brightness of the sun. Eventually he always succeeded in dragging himself from his bed to relieve himself of the night's consumption, and to make himself look at least half-respectable. Respectability went hand in hand with plausibility, as it turned out.

The more stories he could tell, the better. The better the stories the more flagons of ale or beer he could acquire for free. It did not matter really if they laughed at him, or behind his back, or if they were utterly taken in – so long as he received money or ale for his trouble. And this disaster at Ember had proven to be his most lucrative scam yet, because even if they thought he had fled like a coward or stayed as a hero, they did seem to believe that he might well have been there. Ember was not far away, and it was true that he had been known to go out along that road, when he was sober, to trade the wares his wife made.

A few more people had been willing to listen to his tales this afternoon; a larger crowd than usual had huddled inside the inn from the wretched weather, to find hot broth or fresh bread, probably both. Not so many were willing to drink by that hour; Elgun certainly was, but no one had yet obliged him. Still, there was some fun to be had in the rapt expressions on the faces of the children who had come with their parents to shelter from the rain.

As he began to lead up to his tale about Ember, Elgun noticed a pair of travellers look around at him searchingly. Their vocation was evident from their scuffed, mud-stained boots and practical travelling clothes. The man, wrapped tightly in a dark cloak, had a pensive look and piercing grey eyes set in a pale, angular face. Clean-shaven, with black hair carefully swept back away from his face, he was unarmed and as well-dressed as a practical traveller could be.

Elgun wondered if he could wangle some coppers off him for 'extra details'. The man looked _very_ interested on how this tale would pan out. As did the Elvish girl by his side, though a look at her sent a chill of worry down his spine – true enough, she was striking, with that lovely blue hair, all a-tumble down to her elbows, and her eyes were large and gold. True enough, she was beautiful, even with that thin scar running down one cheek, for it did not mar the rest of her face…or at least, she would have been a lovely sight, but for the anger she exuded. He would have to choose his words carefully, he told himself. She might be small, but she was armed clearly enough; a kukri on each belt, and daggers doubtlessly concealed about her person. And that look. The look of menace, rage…and a strange calculated air to it all, like one who has too much to hide. Elgun understood that feeling all too well.

"…I had just lined up my arrows on the deer when I heard a growl. I turned, and there was the biggest, blackest wolf I'd ever seen coming right at me! Lucky for me I had my enchanted dagger with me. With its jaws only inches from my throat I lunged, and with a quick thrust of my blade, I cut out the beast's heart!" Elgun was just announcing.

This was the prologue to his version of events at Ember, and the inn's patrons were 'ooh-ing' and 'aah-ing' with at least polite interest thus far. His inspiration had been the large grey dog by the fire, blinking back at him with those yellow eyes. It looked remarkably like a wolf, but who would keep an animal like that for a pet?

"I was understandably tired from this unexpected turn of events, so after all of this fun in the Duskwood, I decided to head to Ember to rest. It was evening by this time, and the deer about my shoulders was heavy, y'know?" a few understanding nods, even as a third adventurer, even meaner looking than the Elf, approaching the group around Elgun, "Th-that's when I smelled the smoke. I ran there as quickly as I could, and what did I see?" he was careful to embellish his words with his best horrified look, as if reliving the traumatising moments of witnessing such a massacre, "The village in flames! Indeed! The defenceless people were being heartlessly slaughtered by cruel, evil men. There were dozens of attackers, heavily armed, aided by foul creatures – demons, I think."

"What did you do?" a boy at the front of the group asked, wide-eyed.

Elgun paused a moment, noticing that the man who had just arrived had come closer. Tall and leanly muscular, with a dark shadow of facial hair and the cruellest eyes he had ever seen, Elgun did not doubt this man was with the Elf. Though he was simply dressed in a tunic and trousers, he had a longsword at his hip, his hand resting on the pommel. That gave the storyteller pause, and for a nervous moment his eyes flickered up to meet the other man's. It looked like Cyric himself lived there.

"Wh-what did I do? Well, the only thing I could do," Elgun ploughed on now, "I attacked! I cut down two of them before they knew I was there, but the others, seeing what a threat I was, ganged up on me. I slew several before one of them snuck up from behind and knocked me unconscious. The enemy must have thought me dead, because when I woke, they had all gone and Ember was…nothing but ash and…well…embers all about me."

The less imposing traveller smirked wryly at Elgun's words, and the fraudulent storyteller watched him leaning closer to whisper something in the Elf's ear which made her smile slightly, her eyes meeting his levelly. She quirked an eyebrow at him, her anger apparently fading. It made him feel a little safer about his direction of the story. Maybe he was winning even her over? This other man, the one closer to him, however, remained unreadable. There was no anger in his expression, though doubt was evident in droves. But those eyes, they filled him with fear. Dark. Staring. Cold.

"And what about Ember?" the child asked now.

"Sadly I was too late," Elgun bowed his head, sighing dramatically, "Everyone was dead. There was little more I could do, so I returned to Port Llast."

The group of onlookers nodded and gave him their condolences. There seemed a general consensus among them that he had told at least some of the truth. A few pints of ale started appearing on the table by his elbow, and that brought him relief. Taking one up, he drank deeply, accepting the condolences offered his way and the pats on his arm as the group dispersed. But after his second draught of ale he put his tankard down to see that the familiar throng of patrons had gone, and all three adventurers had approached now. Their looks were hardly ones of those convinced.

"You saw the attack on Ember," the Elf commented flatly, and her tone suggested she meant quite the opposite.

"Y-yes, indeed. It was quite the traumatising experience, it would be most distressing to give you any more details…"

"You will receive no payment for your lies," the smaller, unarmed man told him coolly, shaking his head mockingly as he spoke.

"Then I'm afraid I cannot help you," Elgun responded, drawing himself up with a show of confidence and beginning to move past the group of three. For a moment he thought it might just have worked, maybe they were just a group of bullying ruffians and nothing more…but the cruel-looking man, a ranger from the quiver on his back, stepping in his way, catching him roughly by the arm.

"Try to leave without answering, and I'll hunt you down and cut your throat. Or maybe I will let you have a real fight with a wolf…and we'll see who wins," the ranger hissed.

Elgun heard an answering snarl. Looking down he saw the dog had come closer, its yellow eyes staring balefully up at him, sharp teeth on show. So it _was_ a wolf. Elgun blanched and backed away, his hands up in surrender as he looked up to meet the man's eyes again.

"Got it?" the ranger demanded, and Elgun nodded quickly, backing up against a table. The confrontation had been too quiet for anyone in the rowdy, crowded inn to have overheard. No one seemed to be paying him any attention at all.

"Did you get a look at the leader of the group, perchance?" the Elf asked now, and her grim expression showed to him that she did not enjoy this as much as did the ranger, whose smirk was slight but evident.

"I-I did not…"

"And you say you were hunting deer in the Duskwood?" the less imposing man questioned languidly after casting the ranger a long, disgusted look.

"Yes, maybe I embellished it talking about that wolf, but yes. I have a family to feed."

"Funny that you say that, really. You see, it's a well-known fact in these parts that there are no deer in the Duskwood, and there never have been."

"And just how exactly did you get away from all those men? And demons? How did you manage to play dead for them? They could have smelled your blood, or heard your heartbeat," the Elf pointed out.

"I well…it was well away from the rest of the town. They must have moved far enough away to pay me no more heed…"

"I've heard enough," the well-groomed man sighed, turning away and putting a hand on the Elf's shoulder, utterly dismissing Elgun, "The man's a fool. I suggest we ask elsewhere, perhaps the travelling merchants. Mayhap one was going along the South Road as…" they both moved away then, and their conversation was covered by the noise of the busy inn.

Elgun made to move away now, reaching for another pint, but a rough hand grasped his shoulder and dragged him back with a startled yelp. A few people looked around curiously, but no one seemed _too _interested. Who wanted to confront the glaring ranger who appeared to have been so offended by the serial liar?

"If you keep on spreading your lies," the ranger growled, backing Elgun up now, around the corner to the currently closed kitchens, "Things will _end_ very badly for you."

The door to those kitchens was padlocked, down a short, dark corridor, and it was against the hard, ridged frame of this portal that the cruel man slammed Elgun, a gloved hand gripping tightly around his throat.

"I…I…" the storyteller tried to speak but his words only came out in a gasp and a few pathetic wheezes. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, imagined his face going purple, and one foot kicked convulsively, his hands pulling at his attacker's wrist.

"Shut up, you pathetic drunkard. And listen to me well," those dark eyes were blazing with rage and malice, though the grip around Elgun's throat had loosened enough for him to breathe, "If you dare to tell anymore lies about her, I will hunt you down – and don't you doubt that I can – and I will kill you. Slowly." He spoke each word carefully, dripping with threat, and Elgun felt as though his heart had turned to ice in his chest.

The wolf was prowling at the mouth of the corridor, teeth bared, and that was the last straw for Elgun. He knew this man was not lying. And he did not want to die. Unable to speak, chin quivering with fear, he nodded several quick, shaky times as best he could, and the man smirked a derisive smirk, turning even before he let go of Elgun's neck and sent him sprawling to the floor. Just when it seemed the ranger was leaving, he turned back, using the force of the movement to send a hard booted foot colliding with the crumpled drunkard's stomach. He laughed a coldly and left Elgun wheezing on the floor, hardly daring to move even in the seconds of silence.

"That was poorly done," a gentle voice told Elgun pityingly.

He had taken a few minutes to unfurl himself; to catch his breath and sit up. Now he looked up with a fearful start, into calm blue eyes and a welcoming smile, though the speaker's face was otherwise hidden by the low cowl of a dark cloak. They offered a hand to help him up, and when he took it the arm that raised him was strong and steady. Stronger than the ranger's; strong enough to protect him, he fancied.

"Who are you?" the storyteller asked cautiously.

"An ally against our common foe. That man's love did burn Ember, and he, or she, will try to kill you if you spread your tales. But we can help you. Side with us, and we can keep you safe."

* * *

Ember was a charred shadow of a town. It smelled disturbingly like cooked meat, and flies buzzed about those forms which were not so blackened as…others. Neeshka did not think too hard on that as she, Elanee and Khelgar picked their way through the ruins. She did not like to look too long at anything here. White ash drifted thickly in the pond by what had once been the town hall, the rest blowing in the chill wind, some settling in Elanee's hair. Everything was broken and peeling, most of the houses just broken cinders, skeletal posts and rafters barely holding up. All was still and silent; eerily similar to how it had been when the Giths ambushed them…only now no one was hiding in their homes. There was so much more to see, but nothing new to hear.

Neeshka and the others had been scouting out the area, searching through the Duskwood for clues with little success; Elanee's woodland knowledge was somewhat lacking, as a druid of the Mere, and it had been slow going. They had bypassed Port Llast but been as meticulous as they knew how to be before finally moving on to Ember, aiming to get there at around the time that Isaviel and the others should. Those days since leaving Neverwinter had been disheartening and fruitless…and now they must witness the horror of the town that had been burned. No, Neeshka knew, Isaviel would never – _could_ never – do something like this. She doubted that even Bishop would.

"This…this is…beyond evil," Elanee whimpered at last, shaking her head and coming to a halt by the well. Only this construction, at the very centre of the town, had gone unburned. The same could not be said for the little hut that had once stood around it, but the frame holding up the bucket remained, the rope still hanging all the way down.

"We'll do what we can to make this right, lass," Khelgar offered, looking up with an awkward sidelong glance at the druid and patting her on the elbow.

Neeshka found his words to be empty ones. There was no hope in this place, and there never could be. Tears stung her eyes as she gazed around at the ruins, Qara and Grobnar looking oddly endearing together huddled by the broken sign to the town. Neither had been willing to enter the charred mess, both wearing unexpectedly similar looks of fear and disgust. Neeshka wondered if it were the power behind all those flames that had ravaged this place which Qara feared so much – there was no way she had Grobnar's compassion.

Behind the pair loomed the dark of the dense trees, the Duskwood's echo, the road leading back down the hill to the lower lands where the forest truly began. Everything beyond the cliff, to the north, was endless dark trees and rolling hills, and in the other direction lay the Crags and their barren foothills. This was a place utterly separate, connected to the rest of the Luskan lands and those of the Lords' Alliance by that one broad road, joining onto the South Roads at the base of the cliff. There was a steep way up, and a steep way back down – the road south towards the hills curved slowly, dying out all the way. That was a hunter's path – whether you were hunting for game or for Giths.

"There's nothing here," Neeshka groaned once her eyes had swept all three hundred and sixty degrees around, "Nothing. It's just ashes and death and dirt and boiled blood and flies. There's nothing _here_. There's no proof of anything except a murder." Oh what wouldn't she give to be safe with Mae'rillar back at the hideout!

"I wish I could disagree there," Khelgar's shoulders slumped with a clank of mail, "But I can't."

Not for the first time the Tiefling found herself staring down at his burly, gruff, armoured form and finding the sight of him at once infuriating, endearing…and ridiculous. He always donned his armour and battle axe when they left Neverwinter, but still maintained that he sought the path of the monk, a path which suited him ill. As ill as did his clanking armour.

"There has to be…" Elanee began, shaking her head, when her words were interrupted by a pull on the rope behind her.

"What th-" Khelgar wondered, and all three turned to look now, when a second yank set the metal crossbar screeching.

Elanee rushed to the edge of the well and gasped at whatever she saw down there.

"Are you alright? We can pull you up! Just hold on!" the druid cried, and when Neeshka reached her side she stared down the well to see a gangly teenage boy shivering in the waist-deep water, staring up at them with eyes that look violet in the dim light around him. He said not a word, and did not look afraid. He just stared, and pulled on the rope again.

"It's the boy – the one who took Bishop's knife…" Neehksa's words trailed away when she saw the body floating by the boy, face down, a cut in the leather armour on their blood-stained back.

"She's right lad! Just you hold on, we'll get ye out," Khelgar called, and the boy nodded, putting a foot in the bucket and wrapping his arms around the rope.

It took quite some effort from the Dwarf to turn the high crank to raise the bucket, and he was puffing and red-faced from the stretch by the time the boy was stepping blankly onto the brick rim of the well. Neeshka could breathe at last once his feet were on solid ground – the rope had begun fraying about halfway up, and she had feared it could not last. She had the strong urge to hug the boy, or Khelgar, or both…but refrained.

"Here, you look freezing," Elanee was cooing, pulling off her cloak and wrapping it around the boy's shuddering shoulders, rubbing at his arms to try to warm him up.

"Thank you for your help," he told them gravely, those strange eyes never once looking around the town, never once taking in the scene, "And in return I believe I can help you. This knife saved me from the man who fell in the well before me. His fall inspired me to hide down there. No one thought to look," he broke off abruptly, his eyes focusing past Neeshka, "You have returned," he said softly, but somehow the words carried.

The Tiefling looked around to see Isaviel and Casavir making their way through the town. The Moon Elf looked pale and oddly vulnerable, her eyes wide and staring at she looked around, her gaze lingering where Neeshka's had not dared to. Beside the tall paladin she looked small indeed, and Neeshka found it markedly interesting that he did not look horrified in the same way as Isaviel, whose manner in this place was somehow more naïve. He appeared…unsurprised. Angry. Righteous. And the prickling glow of his aura was growing with every step, making Neeshka's skin itch. It always did, warring with her Demonic blood, an invisible flood of Tyr's power that only she seemed able to feel.

"Isaviel! We have found a survivor – not all was lost at Ember!" Elanee called, and the Moon Elf looked ahead as if seeing her three friends for the first time. She blanched and rocked back on her heels when she saw the boy, but he offered a smile her way and she seemed to grow more cautious than afraid. Neeshka noticed that now she approached with her hands on her kukris.

"You have beautiful wings, my lady. I see them now," the boy complimented once Isaviel was closer, by Neeshka's side, and five eyes blinked at him in confusion. He seemed unperturbed, his focus now utterly on the Moon Elf, "Though the Demons cut them from you, their shadows remain. Grey and shining."

"How do you know that?" Isaviel demanded, and the boy's smile did not falter.

"I see things in my dreams, and sometimes I see things in waking. I can see your wings. I foresaw Ember's fall. And I could see that the one who led the men of Luskan here was not truly you. He was tall and broad, and his image flickered back and forth from his true form to yours."

"Luskan you say?" Casavir asked softly, "Yet you have spoken to no one of this?"

"No. I have hidden in the well, but the man who died there carried this ring. And before I escaped there, I found this, as well."

He opened his palm, and inside it he had been clutching a steel ring, decorated all the way around with pointed shapes, and a little vial, within which remained a small amount of white powder. Neeshka wondered at how he had managed to keep it from filling with water. Meanwhile, Isaviel had taken the two items gingerly from the boy, who now pulled Bishop's curved dagger free from his belt and offered it to her.

"Many thanks, my lady," he told her, those words so formal and precisely formed, "Your friend's knife was invaluable." Its blade seemed to shimmer with just the slightest hint of a blue sheen in the sun now.

"Don't call me that," Isaviel told him reflexively, but he did not flinch, and she took the knife from him too, slipping it through her own belt, "But…my thanks to you as well. It may be that you have given me a little more hope."

"Would you testify in her favour at a trial?" Casavir asked of the boy, who now looked to him with a long, long stare before speaking.

"I will, for I know she is not guilty. And you…you must stay by her side. There are those who would darken her soul."

* * *

Bishop had been gone all day, and Isaviel was beginning to wonder if he would come back. He had expressed an intense aversion to going anywhere near Ember and had instead spoken of looking through the Duskwood for clues. He was an expert tracker, and she had agreed. But she felt oddly unstable without his presence, even after the boy's words – perhaps especially because of them. She knew without any doubt that he had been referring to the ranger when he had spoken of 'those who would darken her soul'. Everyone had thought it, and everyone had seen her flinch. Casavir had just nodded dutifully, and they had avoided an awkward silence by hurrying from the town, bringing the boy with them and re-joining Qara, who had been joined by Sand.

Grobnar had been attempting to console a weeping Shandra by the wayside, but Elanee had soon ousted him and they had headed back down the road to make a camp. There was no way they could make the journey to Port Llast in a whole day with the light beginning to wane and the boy so desperately in need of a change of clothes and a warm fire.

Thus they sat, Shandra leaning her head on Elanee's shoulder as they both stared into the fire, the boy sleeping, now dressed in some of Khelgar's spare clothes. They were hilariously wide for him, and just that little bit too short as well. But they would serve until his other things had been dried. Elanee had washed them and they were tied to an overhanging branch of one of the trees reaching down from the outcropping over the fire. Sand had propped himself up against that slight rise, a cloth-bound book in his hands, with a conjured orb of gentle white light humming mesmerizingly over his head to allow him the luxury of reading.

Grobnar was sleeping, too, snoring softly and huddled about his lyre for comfort. Neeshka was lying down, but her back was to the group. Isaviel feared the Tiefling had been crying. Qara, meanwhile, was watching the flames with intensity unmatched by any of those other waking travellers. She had refused to speak to anyone since they had left Ember, and the small frown on her face had been unwavering from then on as well.

Isaviel was just heading back to the fire, Khelgar having relieved her of watch duty, when she noticed their group had an absentee. A quick look around told her that he was not in the immediate vicinity, and Sand's look, pale eyes peering over the top of his book, was just a little too close to a smirk when he saw her turning about in confusion.

"Casavir has gone to the stream, Isaviel," the wizard told her as she approached him, "I believe he wanted words with you after your watch."

"What kind of words?" the Moon Elf asked cautiously, staring at her bedroll longingly. It had been a long day.

Sand made a tutting sound as he followed her gaze just to his left. Although she had become more wary of him of late, she still tended to leave her bedroll nearer his than some of the others. There was still trust there…and he was far more bearable, with his thoughtful silences and insightful comments. Nor did he snore, and his perpetual calm and realism made him a stabilising companion – In a way that such among her friends as Khelgar or Bishop were not.

"I do not think it can wait," Sand told her when she glared back at him wordlessly, "I can see you are tired, but it would not do to have more tension than necessary hanging over those in your little band. Most of us heard what our young ward said. All among we who heard know what he meant – or at least we think we do. And that assumption, left unmentioned, could cause more trouble. I am sure you do not want more trouble."

"Fine, you're right," the Moon Elf sighed.

Now she knew where to look she could see Casavir's broad form seated on the rocky bank of the stream, almost out of sight around the hill's outcropping. Upon silent feet Isaviel trod the soft earth into the near pitch darkness of the woods, just inside which ran the stream. All the same, Casavir did not looked around or even start when she slid onto the rock beside him, watching the few strands of moonlight which had fought past the canopy playing on the tinkling waters.

"You wished to speak to me," Isaviel stated, looking around at his set expression.

Combining her unhelpfully monochrome night vision with the fragile moonlight, she could make out the blue gleam of his eyes, and the slight lines around them. Evidence of smiles – yet he gave her so few. None of those in her group would have described him as a happy man. He was calm, reliable. Not one for smiles. Not with her. Not with any of them.

"I did," Casavir admitted, placing his hammer on the pebbles at their feet, its blue glow just about bringing enough light for Isaviel to see him clearly now in day vision – and it would certainly illuminate her for him, "I do not want the boy's words to trouble you."

"An interesting phrasing," the Moon Elf smiled wryly, shaking her head, "Is it not more honest to say it would do us no good to pretend he wasn't talking about Bishop? Of course he was. Who else could there possibly be? What do you care if they trouble me? Aren't you relieved that a seer agrees with your dislike of Bishop?"

"I am never pleased where dislike is involved, my lady…Isaviel. I take no pleasure in my distrust for Bishop…"

"Of course you do! No man maintains hate without taking some satisfaction in it. If nothing else it makes your honour shine all the brighter."

"And it dims yours," he told her, his voice suddenly sharp, "I fear there will be a day when you can no longer see Tyr's light in that hammer. Though he is a just god who takes no sides in good or evil, my order does. He has bestowed that light so that I can judge those I must judge, and that I can do it justly. Whether they are enemies or foes."

"But you can always see the light. How do you know if others can?"

His pause was a long one, and he watched her closely before speaking again.

"It is different for me, as the wielder of the hammer. But it is not for me to judge you, or any others. Not directly, unless Tyr wills it – when it is necessary. Ordinarily, it is for those who know what to look for, in themselves, from an outward sign like this hammer or otherwise, to judge how best to live their life. I would prefer it to be a path of honour, of goodness. But that is not always available, or possible…or wanted."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Isaviel demanded, biting her lip when she turned to see the paladin was much closer than she had expected.

"You are nervous," he noted softly.

Her heart flipped in her chest, and she wanted to turn away from that look. Yes, she was nervous – of him, of his judgement. Of those bright blue eyes and what they did to her pulse. She felt herself beginning to blush, and turned away quickly, veiling her face with her hair. But her eyes looked back to watch him, and when she did, she saw Casavir's smile – it was a slight one, but it was there. And it was a gentle look that reached his eyes and seemed to make them twinkle in the light. Something had pleased him, and it was as though he had read her mind.

"What do you think of what I have seen from the hammer?"

"I believe there is more good in you than you wish to admit. You do not need to fear to be kind, my lady…Isaviel. Goodness, and wishing to be good, makes you strong, and wins you friends…and love," his conviction was mesmerizingly intense, but she recoiled a little at those softly spoken words.

"I do not wish to be needlessly cruel," Isaviel corrected him, and Casavir shrugged in acceptance, maintaining that enigmatic smile, "But surely that's not all? Did you want to have a private conversation about how morally wrong I am or did you want to warn me away from Bishop?"

"Both and more, if you will suffer to listen to me," Casavir admitted, "It is no secret, the enmity between your ranger and I."

"My ranger?" Isaviel scoffed, and the paladin's smile was utterly gone, "He travels among us to spite Duncan. He seems to owe him some kind of debt, but…"

"I am not a fool, Isaviel. He would have us all believe that he is here to make Duncan feel uncomfortable, or that he wants treasure or misplaced glory or just adventure. All of those things probably come as added bonuses to him. His one redeeming feature is that which is most dangerous for you, and thus for all of us. _We_, the rest of us,follow you still because we know that it is safer for you to learn more of the shards you own, since you cannot be free of them. We have followed you _here_ because Luskan's claims are cruel and unjust. I think that on some level he feels those goals as well…"

"What's his 'one redeeming feature' then?" Isaviel demanded, folding her arms and glaring at the blank-faced paladin beside her.

"His care for you. He might lie about it, or try to change the emphasis of his goals to other things. But he wants you. Perhaps he loves you. But his love is a stale thing, it hides a pervasive rot that comes from his soul. He knows he has power over you, and he will use it to justify his own cruelty. He brings out the worst in you."

_That sounds familiar_. Neeshka had told her the same thing, and the realisation grated. Yet Isaviel bit back her retort, reigning in her anger. That would seem weak, overly emotionally led – that was the last thing she needed when discussing Bishop with Casavir. She had watched him closely as he spoke, listened to the tone of his voice, which he tried so hard to keep even.

"You hated him before you knew him," she pointed out, and the paladin's expression flickered.

"He is a Luskan, with the accent and trappings of one. And he was far from welcoming to me when first we met. He spent his time attempting to divert you, and trying to undermine or insult me. Men who respond to a paladin like that are never good men."

"That's awfully judgemental," Isaviel agreed, narrowing her eyes at him, "But not very just. You do not judge Neeshka so quickly, though she hates your 'aura'. And she is Demonkin, surely a more grievous threat than being born in Luskan or its lands?"

"She was not born in the Abyss."

"I believe she was, Casavir."

The paladin flinched, looking away, staring up at the silver-speckled canopy. She could see her words unsettled him – it was too easy to pick out inconsistencies in a faith so hopelessly idealistic as his. As it always did between them, silence had descended. If they were not passing judgement, or arguing over who they passed it to, it seemed they had nothing to speak about. That realisation gave her an odd sinking feeling, a little rush of sadness, perhaps regret. But she had to _win_. She had to feel safe in her choices, and Casavir seemed only to fight against those.

Wordlessly the Moon Elf stood, and the paladin did not move to stop her – he did not look around at all. She had taken several steps back into the darkness between the blue beacon of his hammer and the camp's bright fire when he spoke again.

"We both know that is different. Neeshka's heritage makes her distrust me, but my instincts make me distrust Bishop. She inherently fears me; I _understand_ that we should fear the ranger. He is not to be trusted…I do not like the way he looks at you," he did turn now, and his expression was imploring where she wished it were frustrated, "You are twisting the truth to escape its hold on us all. Neeshka may have been born in the Abyss, but she was not there for long. We both know she was brought up by priests of Helm – and however much she has scorned their doctrine, and the law as well, she cried for the dead tonight. Her caring makes her a worthy friend at your side. Bishop would not cry, he could not and he would not…"

"He brings out the worst in me, and on and on and on. The boy claimed to have foreseen the destruction of Ember, and somehow he knows I am not responsible. Those are things he _knows_. And these have been proven. But how do you know he isn't just saying those things because he wants to affect some other future he has seen somehow? He won't even give us his name – how do we know he really has our best interests at heart? And he might not have been referring to Bishop at all, though you are so quick to assume so."

Even as she had spoken those words, she had heard the denial as surely as Casavir did, and Isaviel swallowed the taste of defeat. She flung her hands up in frustration and started to turn away, but the paladin was standing, and caught her gently but firmly by the arm before she could make her escape. Looking back around, she saw no _judgement_ in his eyes, not for her, and he let go of her before she could think to pull away. His smile was a sympathetic one, and it made her heart ache…and her soul revolt.

"Please, think on what I have said," he requested gently, bowing his head a little to speak to her, as close as they were.

Staring up at him, Isaviel paused for a long moment before re-finding her composure, forcing her face to become a mask for her emotions once more. Stepping back from him, she put on a smirk and just shrugged, something which made him raise his eyebrows expectantly.

"It is of course up to you, my lady," Casavir agreed now, turning away and heading back to the rock, to sit quietly by the stream by his glowing hammer.

Isaviel felt the weight of his disappointment acutely, but knew not what else she could have done. So with a sigh, she closed her eyes and reached out to the shadows, finding solace in her lack of corporeality and letting the darkness pull her to her bed. But once she had lain down and sleep had taken her, the dreams swiftly turned to nightmares. Flames, and death and burning, burning, burning. The tearing pain of a jagged knife down her back and her wings dropping to the ground, limp and bloody. Casavir's cold, hard armour digging into her back as he held her tightly, to restrain her before she could…before they would…

"Isaviel! Isaviel!" Sand's voice woke her, and she sat up with a gasp, her forehead almost colliding with his as she did so. His hand was on her shoulder, his voice urgent but whispered. His eyes were anxious as he stared down at her.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No, no," he gestured to the camp, where embers alone remained smouldering in the remains of the fire, all of her friends sleeping now, and the boy too. Casavir had taken up the watch at some point; she could see the gleam of his armour in the moonlight over by the road.

"Then what is it?" she looked to the wizard with confusion, but her heart was still racing, and she knew the fear of her nightmares still shone in her eyes.

"Your dreams. You were thrashing in your sleep, muttering and cursing. I feared you might yet wake the others," Sand admitted as they both moved back to lean against the embankment behind them, "I know you would not want that – if nothing else, they would worry."

The Moon Elf nodded at that, her eyes large with the fear that made her too vulnerable in that moment for her own liking. She could feel tears stinging her eyes, and saw Sand's expression soften even more. He brought up a hand to brush aside the first drop that touched her cheek, and she let him put an arm around her shoulders and pull her to him. Such calm, unquestioning comfort felt alien to her, and it was all she could do to hold back more tears when he kissed the top of her head.

"These dreams will not leave me alone," she told him after a deep breath, finding the rhythmic beat of his heart guiltily comforting, "Every night since the battle I fought in at West Harbour."

"They will in time. We all suffer them, those of us who care. Though West Harbour was not good to you, it was your home; the place of your birth. It was the first place where suffering mattered _against _you, though I know it is not the first place in which you killed. Take solace in how much you care, though you pretend not to. And that the Giths are gone. And one more thing…"

"What's that?" she sensed his smile, though she could not see it.

"The items the boy gave you – they are blessedly useful. A Luskan ring, and alteration powder. Regarding the latter, that is the medium by which one may alter their appearance. If the boy will speak for us, and present the items before a jury…you may not need to fight the trial by combat at all."

* * *

The swamps smelt of evil, and the shadows were so thick this far into Meredelain that Daeghun could feel them resisting his steps, even when he doubled back, fearing he could become lost. This would be his last journey through the Mere, he feared. Such pervasive corruption was all too familiar to him, even after the decades. It reminded him of death, and the clash of steel. It was in these swamps two and a half decades ago that he had first felt the terror of the King of Shadows, and he had hoped it would also be the last time. Alas.

The archer's steps were ever more hurried as he trod the soft, mossy ground, expertly avoiding the sinkholes and hidden pools from some forty or so years of practice. It was not fear that spurred him on his path, however, but rather determination. He had seen the blue fires, out there among the ruins, as he had dreaded that he would, and he knew what that meant. They were here; they had returned. And West Harbour was doomed.

Daeghun's heart grew cold as he thought on the death that must surely follow. He had begged Tarmas and Georg Redfell to leave, to abandon the rebuilding of West Harbour. But the wizard was too hopeful, and the mayor too stubborn. They could see only the greener moss, the re-emergence of the fish and the birds – even the sightings of prowling marsh leopards had pleased them. They took them as signs that the poor harvest had been just a part of the usual cycle of life; a bad year made a farmer's life a hardship, but they could survive it. Neither Tarmas nor Georg saw what Daeghun could, because they did not want to. No one wanted to admit that the shadows were returning, that the ancient threat, decades gone, had returned. They were optimists, not realists. Daeghun was a realist. And if West Harbour would not listen, then he must find one who could.

The Elf's strides turned into a run when he heard the first distant shout, followed by a great crash as of a door being smashed down. He could not see through the thick night-time fog, his own steps barely illuminated by the moonlight. But he could hear the destruction, reeling to a stop when the wails became a great, long chorus. He was too late. West Harbour was lost. All of it; lost.

Steeling his nerve, he began to creep closer, down the hill at which the swamp-proper ended and the town's confines began, past the first wooden palisade, beyond which stood one of Retta Starling's prized apple trees, withered and barren from the pestilential year. The sounds coming from the village were gut-wrenchingly painful to hear, and still he crept on, up to that tree, leaning against its cracked, diseased bark as he notched an arrow and looked ahead, here where the fog thinned…to see death flooding the village. A tide of amorphous darkness seemed to be surging through the streets, coalescing into tall forms, some more human than others, armed with serrated swords and cold evil. The dead came with them, ancient and rotting corpses, twisted and shambling, and skeletons too.

"Great Chauntea!" Daeghun hissed, seeing the blue fires springing to life in the eyes of each of these creatures, seeing them knocking down the hastily barricaded doors of those he knew so well.

He saw Retta Starling and her children dragged out from their home, butchered along with all the others who had tried so hard to rebuild the town. Georg Redfell roared in great rage, only half-armoured, and swung at the village's attackers with his greatsword. One arc of the blade took out one zombie, but another soon replaced it. Another swing cut through one of the shadows…only for it to reform, and reach for the man, whose eyes had gone wide now in fear. Though he could not touch it, it could surely touch him. Its hand closed around his throat and snapped his neck like a twig.

Daeghun's simple arrows would be no good here. He watched in horror, in anguish, as the life of the town was pulled apart, and watched as Tarmas died, but his arrows did no good, and nor would his rage. He had to leave, and it must be _now_. If no one could warn Faerûn, then everyone would die. With a heavy heart, he took up his bow and turned away from West Harbour, vanishing into the swamp.


	17. When Truth is Tried

"I didn't think ye'd be sleepin' tonight, lass. For what it's worth, I don't see how they can find ye guilty, not if Tyr's got any justice in 'im at all."

Khelgar's voice was not unexpected at the doorway leading out of the tavern and into the Flagon's living areas. Something about her plight seemed to have affected him, especially as the days wore on; his glances had been often and understanding, seeing her withdrawing from the banter among the others of the group. They had arrived back at The Sunken Flagon four days before the trial, and that just did not seem enough time to recuperate from their journey to Ember and all they had seen there. They had been required by law to leave the boy from the well in the safe-keeping of Haeromos at Port Llast, though Isaviel was loathe to agree with Sand's adamant verdict on this. It was all too evident that those in Port Llast had been bought off or intimidated by the Luskans.

"They might try to execute me tomorrow," the Moon Elf pointed out simply, her voice far steadier and stronger than she felt.

She did not look around as the Dwarf approached, his booted footsteps heavy on the wooden floor of the tavern, staring into the cold ashes and charred wood of the fireplace from the armchair. It was all but pitch-black in the room and as such she could see him in the shades of grey which were characteristic of her unusual nightvision.

"Sand has been working day an' night t' make sure he can avoid any o' them…loopholes the Luskans might try t' use on ye," Khelgar added as he sat in the chair by the mantelpiece. That was Bishop's habitual seat – but Bishop had not come back.

"Otherwise my last option will be trial by combat. They'll probably pitch me against a dragon."

"It's High Justice, lass. They wouldn't let 'em."

"You hold Tyr and Neverwinter's justice in high esteem," Isaviel noted, narrowing her eyes in his direction, but he just nodded, "Regardless, it only stays that way until I'm proven guilty, and if I do get a chance to fight – and I lose – then it's the same as an execution."

"We won't let that happen. Neverwinter won't," the Dwarf denied her words gruffly, and she could only smile ruefully at his conviction.

Over the last few days he had been the most available of her friends, and he probably had begun to fancy himself the most approachable as well, given the awkwardness that seemed an innate barrier between Casavir and Isaviel. Neeshka had gone to her hideout as soon as they returned, barely speaking a word to anyone. Sand had locked himself away in his house with piles of law tracts and tomes, scouring them for loopholes and anomalies. His light shone every hour of the night. Shandra spent her mornings and her afternoons practicing with her shortsword against any one of the martial companions who would take her on, and she had grown quiet and thoughtful in the evenings. The sight of Ember had affected her greatly, and although Isaviel found that she could empathise, she guiltily accepted that she could not sympathise. The woman's grief was too real and too clear. It unsettled her. And last of all, Duncan was far too anxious about the coming trial to be of much moral support – he had avoided her eyes lately, lest he blurt out some panicked sentiment or something equally embarrassing for a retired, battle-hardened adventurer.

"He'll come back," Khelgar added softly into the silence that had stretched between them, and Isaviel looked towards him curiously, "Ye ranger, I mean."

"He is not my ranger."

"Have it your way, but he'll come back all the same," Khelgar shrugged, "As much as I don't want 'im to, he will.

* * *

Isaviel had never felt so sick, waiting behind a portcullis-style doorway, a row of emotionless guards blocking her path back down that dim, bland corridor. Fidgeting with the long sleeves of her dress she felt strangely naked in all that material, liable to trip on the hem of her skirt, liable to choke from the button pressing against the base of her throat. No clothes for fighting, these – and no weapons to hand, either.

Beyond the grating of the black-painted doorway ahead she could make out the low slab upon which she was to stand, and the identical construction across the circular, roofless chamber which would be Torio's place. There were the three chairs raised on a podium to the left, looking down upon both platforms, the central one just that little bit more ornate, its cushions purple instead of blue: a throne.

Of course, all around the room, high up on a circular balcony, were the people of the nobility of Neverwinter. Some were leaning over the bars to try to get a look at her, and all of them were talking…all at once. Her ears were ringing from their ceaseless excited chatter. As well as this, there was one small stand by the door of each platform, and Isaviel could make out the surly, silent group gathered to back up Torio. They looked less like friends and more like lackeys, and one was a hulking brute of a man, heavily muscled and dressed plainly in black, his arms folded in front him as resolutely as a bar on a door. His big, nastily scarred face was set into a scrunched up glare, beady eyes blazing like hateful coals below bushy brows. He was balding, with more stubble on his jaw than hair on his head. He must have been almost seven feet tall standing, as she had observed when he entered, and his steps were unsettlingly quick and balanced. If there was anyone Isaviel never wanted to fight, it was him, and if there was ever anyone she knew Torio wanted her to fight, it was him. She had seen Sand tense when that massive beast entered and knew what had passed through his mind, though he had kept his expression blank.

Looking to her own stand, Isaviel saw most of her friends were present. Shandra was seated closest to her, Sand and Casavir next to her, and the Moon Elf somehow took some solace in the fact that the paladin remained in his armour. The wizard had donned a long green jacket over his plainer black clothes, his boots gleaming in the sunlight, and with the gift of his half-Elven life span he could have passed for a handsome man in his mid-thirties. Shandra kept looking around at her through the grating, trying to send her encourage smiles. The human woman had done as Sand suggested and dressed in her farmer's clothes; that greyish top and brown trousers, a little faded from hours in the sun. 'You look suitably rustic, my dear' he had told her just before the Neverwinter guards had come to the Flagon to collect Isaviel. He had not said much to the Moon Elf, but there had been a strange look in his eyes as she was leaving. It was…wistful.

Elanee's slight form was just visible past Casavir, and Khelgar beyond that. Duncan was at the far end of the stand, kicking a leg back and forth anxiously. She could only hope that he would not blurt out something in the middle of the trial. Qara was seated in the row behind him, looking about the room curiously and with an evident lack of concern for the events of the day. Grobnar was twitching by her side, and she kept elbowing him to quell his mutterings. Sir Grayson Corett was seated two chairs down from them, wearing a bland expression. Neeshka had not come, and there was still no Bishop. Had he truly abandoned them? He had not said when he would be back…

A trumpet sounded in the hall and silence fell as a deep voice proclaimed:

"Lord Nasher Alagondar, ruling Lord of Neverwinter, Chief Justiciar Oleff Uskar, Reverend Judge of Tyr, and Sir Nevalle, Leader of the Neverwinter Nine."

_And so it begins_. Isaviel breathed in deeply, watching the three men enter. Nasher entered first, dressed in a long black velvet cloak, trimmed in silver and gold threat, and a silver doublet with matching breeches. A ceremonial scabbard hung empty at his golden belt, and his crown glinted a matching shade upon his head. He took his seat with practiced pomposity as Nevalle, in his usual Neverwinter Nine attire, reached the chair to his right. Oleff came last, making his way behind the three chairs before standing in front of his own, to Nasher's left.

"Reverend Judge Oleff Uskar, you may proceed," Nasher stated his agreement, and the judge nodded a brief nod without looking around, just reaching his seat.

He did not sit, but rather took hold of the bronze bar in front of him and surveyed the room with a long, burning blue glance before his eyes settled upon the grating in front of Isaviel. His lined face was serene, his black clothes emblazoned across the chest with a thickly embroidered silver eye of Tyr. His voice was gentle when he spoke, barely loud enough to carry.

"We are gathered here in the sight of the Even-Handed God to determine justice for the town of Ember, burned almost to the last man, woman and child. Is the accuser present?"

The grate across the room opened and Torio stepped through, a serious expression plastered to her sharp face as she took her place, unguarded, upon the appropriate platform. She was dressed in a gaudy low-cut gown of blue silk that swept the floor, a rather superfluous length considering the wide slit running up the side of the skirt – heavily embroidered at either side with images of curling white waves, each tipped with a large pearl; it left her right leg effectively bare. A black hairnet had been pinned to the bun of her hair, a reminder that she should be mourning. She may have chosen the Neverwinter colours, but the symbol on her sash was telling; the plain sail and crossed cutlasses of Luskan.

"I am here, Reverend Judge," she said piously, but a quick look up around the balcony of the Neverwinter citizens showed that they were casting one another uncomfortable looks, muttering distrustfully, "I speak for those the accused slaughtered at Ember – and I am here to see that justice is carried out this day."

That made Isaviel's blood boil, and Sand looked back at her pleadingly as if he had read her mind. _Be careful_ he mouthed to her, and she just gritted her teeth, and held on to the long, heavy skirts of her plain dress. She dreaded the glow in her eyes returning – it had not been an issue for many weeks, but the falsity of the peaceable atmosphere had created a lull in her focus. Her anger was growing, and it would not go away; her strange nature would be her downfall, she feared.

"Very well, then bring in the accused," Nasher commanded.

The gate in front of Isaviel screeched ominously on its hinges as it rose above her, the spikes that had linked it to the cracked concrete floor worryingly sharp as they retracted into the arch above. The guards formed up behind her, and she knew she had to step forward, making her way out into the cold air, thankfully still within the confines of this 'Hall of Justice' just outside Neverwinter's walls, yet still adjoined to the Temple of Tyr's northern side.

She kept her head bowed, as Sand had suggested, hoping that he was right about this act; if she dressed demurely, as a fragile, girlish figure in a long, high-buttoned grey dress, carefully plaited hair down her back, they might just think this was a ludicrous claim on sight. Without her weapons she was apparently defenceless; only Oleff knew of her training as a monk, and he was supposed to judge her fairly, on truth, and so appearances should not sway him either way. It took a great deal of concentration to make it to her platform without tripping on her skirts, as she had feared, but at last she stepped up, the guards forming ominously behind her, halberds crossed.

"Is the accused here? And her defence?" Oleff asked, looking directly past Isaviel, at Sand, who stepped forward out of the stand with confidence, and perhaps a little swagger. All show.

"We are, Reverend Judge," he agreed, coming to stand by Isaviel's side, albeit on the hall's floor. The platform was hers alone.

"And do you, Isaviel Farlong, sometimes known as Isaviel Eventyr, deny these claims against you? Ambassador Torio Claven speaks as the accuser, blaming you for the massacre of Ember."

"Yes, we do," Sand agreed firmly, his bright eyes flicking about the room as a quiet murmuring went up across the balconies.

"You are wasting your time, wizard. The proof has already solidly shown your…charge…to be a murderer. You are delaying the inevitable and adding to your own shame as well. And to think, you could have remained at the Hosttower and had some semblance of greatness," Torio scoffed.

"Ambassador, you speak out of turn. We must hear only of the accusations you bring, and the defence of the accused," Nevalle told her sharply, but she kept her eyes on Isaviel, knowing that the damage had already been done.

It took all of the Moon Elf's concentration not to turn to stare at Sand with accusations of her own as a hiss of whispers went up through the crowd. A wizard of the Hosttower? What was this? How – why – had he kept this a secret from her? She did not look, though she felt her rage growing worse, her fists tightening. He bristled beside her as well, but he did not rise to it. And Tyr's justice waited for none of them, apparently, for Oleff was speaking.

"…now we list the items presented by the accused in her defence; they will be shown to the people of the court, Lord Nasher, and held aloft for the eye of Tyr to see…"

As the ring and alteration powder they had found were brought out to the centre of the circular, roofless chamber, placed upon appropriately positioned pedestals by two of the Neverwinter Nine in full regalia, Sand leaned closer and spoke softly. He was permitted to confer with Isaviel as he chose in such intervals, as her defence, but the way his eyes flickered up to meet hers bespoke of a guilty conscience.

"A word of advice; Torio knows that the rabble here want to see someone punished for this crime – likely quite a few of those present knew of Ember, have relatives in the area in similar towns. If she can manipulate them to her advantage, then she will. It is their opinion which will sway the court, ultimately, as their majority vote can veto the decision of the council of three before you. If you cannot persuade them that you have been wronged – and grievously so – then it is an uphill struggle we fight."

"Alright, I see that," Isaviel agreed tersely, knowing she was failing miserably to keep her expression a mask of confused and horrified innocence, "But if I survive this day and night, and whatever the morning brings, then we need to talk. About Luskan."

"Very well," the wizard agreed, already looking away.

The two items were so small on their pedestals that Isaviel doubted anyone in the room could see them clearly – she certainly could not. She watched in silence as Sand was called up to explain the relevance and details of the ring and the powder. Torio balked, sneered and all but jeered at his words, but the Moon Elf saw fear in her eyes. It warmed her heart.

"The accuser may now call witnesses to the stand," Oleff declared as Sand returned to Isaviel's side. The look the half-Elf gave to his charge was dark, and just as there had been fear in Torio's eyes, there was fear in his. Isaviel wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but she could not, so she held his look, and saw the fear return to resolve.

"Thank you Reverend Judge," Torio inclined her head to Oleff before looking about the room, making eye contact with a prejudged number of spectators until she had the room in silent thrall, waving a hand towards the pedestals with a contemptuous gesture, "These pieces of 'evidence' can easily be explained away – they are circumstantial, irrelevant. How do we know they were found at Ember? Do you trust the word of the one who is accused of murder? She knows she is guilty and will try anything to worm her way out of it, even something as brazen as this, clearly," she paused until Oleff started to step forward, evidently wanting to speed her up, "I call up a _witness_ who will tell a different story."

Torio's voice dripped with gleeful expectation, and the cold smile on her face as her eyes met Isaviel's made the Moon Elf's clenched fists ache to hit her. She imagined the hum of the psionic energy, the snapping of bone, the wild-eyed panic…it was all she could do to hold back a grin at the thought…

"Are you speculating on the truth of evidence? Am I guilty or not in your eyes? You seem a little over-eager to pass off what has been found as falsehood. If you were in my place, if you were as innocent as me, would you expect to have such assumptions made of you?"

Those words had rolled off Isaviel's tongue so easily, a little too fast, and she almost regretted it, but when Torio looked back around at her, her eyes were blazing. A great murmur had gone up across the balconies, but Isaviel dared not look up into the citizens' faces.

"I suggest you hold your tongue, murderer," Torio snapped, pointing at the entrance gates, of plain wood, which were slowly creaking open, "I think you will want to hear what my witness has to say."

"My, my, she's got a temper on 'er that one," Duncan murmured sardonically behind Isaviel. Perhaps he was warming to the drama – she wanted to send him a grin. Alas.

"Well done, I am impressed – she has shown herself up there," Sand purred.

Isaviel was no longer listening, watching the gates, seeing the bearded man stepping through the threshold, the glazed look in his eyes, the sweat on his brow. He was dressed respectably in a deep navy tunic and trousers, a new set of walking boots as well, and he never looked at Isaviel, not once. Elgun.

"I…understand that you wish to stall the witnesses, but you are only delaying the inevitable," Torio was attempting to recover herself, "Let me introduce my first witness to the chamber. Elgun, a resident of Port Llast and a witness to the slaughter at Ember."

Now the Luskan ambassador turned her attention to Elgun as he took his place in front of the pedestals of evidence, his back to the judges. That made Isaviel uncomfortable – a layout that leant itself well to hiding the twitches and fearful glances which he was already exhibiting. The look of one who had been bribed, or threatened? Or something else? She was sure Bishop had taken care of him…but Bishop was not here. How far could _he _be trusted?

"Welcome Elgun," Torio was saying, "You were brave to make the journey here, especially considering the danger in testifying." Her prompting words were staged. Isaviel bit back a snarl.

"Y-yes. I…I…"

"You need not fear the accused here, Elgun. Justice will be served soon," Torio was cooing…Isaviel imagined the woman's head on a spike, "Please, if you can, explain to the court what it is that you fear."

"Th-that g-girl and her ranger. They threatened to kill me if I came here to tell you the truth. 'If you testify against us, if you tell them what you saw, we will hunt you down and we will kill you', they said. They knew I'd seen them, and they tried to stop me from getting justice for Ember," his voice was high, and still he had not looked at Isaviel. Sweat was running from his brow, and he mopped at it with his sleeve, his hand evidently shaking. That was real fear. What had Bishop_ said?_

Isaviel gritted her teeth again, and glanced over at Sand. His lips were pursed, but he seemed far more in control than she felt. Bishop may have intimidated the man in the way only he could, but there was also already a plethora of lies in Elgun's opening act.

"Thank you Elgun. Now, you said you saw the murder at Ember," Torio was saying, "You did, did you not?"

"Indeed," he took up a grand tone now to fill the hall as best he could in the silence that had fallen, "That I did! And a fierce, unfair battle against incredible odds it was. I tried to fight off the murderers…but one of them got a lucky blow against me, and down I went."

"So you can confirm that the accused was at Ember, and you saw the murder of those villagers?"

"Oh yes, I saw her there," his eyes flickered to hers, and then his voice went up an octave, "And I'd recognise that scarred face anywhere," _oh, the rage,_ "Those poor, helpless farmers, cut down by that one there!" his hand came out to point at Isaviel accusingly, and she tasted blood, "I tried to save them, but I was only one man against many…and demons, as well. Demons were all about."

"Demons!" Isaviel cried, "This is ludicrous! How do you think I could summon demons to my bidding?" _I'd rather rip your head off myself_.

"Please, speak freely, Elgun" Torio prompted exultantly, "You have nothing to fear from the accused here. She cannot harm you."

"N-no need to defend me, Lady," a ripple of laughter went through the crowd at his words, but he did not seem to notice, "I can handle myself. If any bloodthirsty killer tried to come at me, they'd get more than they bargained for," and in case anyone doubted it, he made a parrying motion, and mimed stabbing an enemy. Well, that ruled him out as a fighting threat once and for all. More laughter swelled.

"Oh Gods," Sand sighed, "If he were touched with a pin he would pop like a balloon."

"I was actually just thinking about cutting his throat," Isaviel hissed, and Sand snorted at her tone.

"Oh, I doubt that would stop him from speaking, trust me. What in the Nine Hells did Bishop say to him? He has given that wretch a _reason_ to lie."

"The witness has identified the accused as the one who killed the villagers. I have no more questions, Reverend Judge," Torio called out smugly, and Elgun made as if to head straight for the doors, but one of the guards by the pedestals caught him by the elbow. He paled substantially, swayed a little as though he might faint, and stood his ground.

"Does the accused have questions for this witness?" Oleff asked and Isaviel nodded firmly, as if that action might work free some of her rage.

"Yes, indeed," Sand sent her an encouraging look, and gestured to give her free reign over he questions.

"W-what did you want to know? I have g-given my testimony," Elgun all but begged, mopping at his brow again, and looking back at Torio helplessly. Her expression was blank, and his eyebrows raised in fear.

"What were you doing when you…came upon Ember?" Isaviel spoke the words softly, but once her glance had caught his, he could not look away and his chin trembled. He did not seem to have expected her to ask questions of him, and his eyes were wide and white with fear.

"I…" he paused, and Oleff stepped forward on the balcony above and behind him, a frown on his lined face.

"Speak, Elgun," the Reverend Judge urged into the silence.

"I was out hunting in the Duskwood!" Elgun managed to choke out, and Isaviel raised an eyebrow.

"_What _were you hunting?"

"…d-deer?" Elgun brought a hand to his mouth as he spoke; it was as if their conversation at Port Llast had left that as the only option for him, though it was obviously an impossibility.

"Reverend Judge," Torio broke in sharply, "I do not see how…"

"Silence, Torio," Nasher interrupted her angrily, "You had your turn."

"Now, that is interesting," Sand stepped in smoothly, "Because, as you well know, it is common knowledge that the Duskwood has no deer. And never has."

Elgun flushed; he had thrown himself headlong into that trap better than any of his imaginary deer could have. They had even mentioned his error to him in – slightly – less threatening circumstances.

"If there were no deer in the Duskwood to hunt, were you out there at all? Did you really come upon Ember? We spoke with a survivor; she told us that there were only a dozen or so attackers, and she never mentioned demons," Isaviel told him, unable to contain her smile as he twitched nervously in front of her.

"The witness has identified you, murderer, it is enough," Torio snapped, but Isaviel ignored her and kept her look towards Elgun.

"Yes," he was suddenly adamant, though his hands shook, "Yes, I saw you. I was out along the road, selling my wife's wares – I lied for shame of my own humble trade," he affected a sad tone, but Isaviel saw nothing of the sort in his look, "I saw the smoke and ran to Ember. There you were with your friends; all those monsters there," he waved a hand towards her stand, "And there were demons. Your wizard there, no doubt he summoned them."

Isaviel was taken aback. His words had come out with a storm of rage, nothing like his previous fear, though that emotion shone bright in his expression. But it made her want to laugh out loud. Nasher's eyebrows were raised high, and Nevalle was leaning his forehead against his palm.

"I am afraid, Elgun, that there are alibis for a number of at least three of those present at the accused's stand," Nasher put in coolly, "Nor was the wizard, Sand, present. He was, in fact, meeting with Sir Nevalle at the time. In Castle Never."

"Well. I-I meant it was her and that ranger. I _definitely_ saw both of them."

It was then, just as the indignation was rising to its worst, that Isaviel heard a sound behind her, and upon turning saw Neeshka being ushered to her stand. The Tiefling wore a hairnet to hide her horns, and a long red dress which covered her tail. At a glance, she could have been human, but her pink eyes gave her true nature away, as did the reddish markings across her cheeks. She caught the Moon Elf's eye as she slipped onto the back row of the stands, and sent her a bright smile. And just like that, she had her friend back, and new conviction with which to turn around and glare at Elgun. Ironically, it did her no good.

"I know you are lying," she told the man coldly, "But…tell me. What did these 'demons', conjured by someone who was not there, look like?"

"They had…scales…and horns…"

"Did they? That's rather vague for someone who saw demons," Sand pointed out.

"This is pointless," Torio sighed, "A man in danger might remember many things a little awry."

"A 'little awry'," Isaviel hissed, "Your understatement will not fool the people in this room, Torio."

That went down well with the crowd, several members of which muttered audible assent, and when she looked up at them to see their nods, the shakes of their heads, she saw familiar dark eyes watching the spectacle. How had he snuck his way in amongst them? Bishop. Her heart lurched. He looked pale, and his travelling clothes were muddier than when last she had seen him – nor was he looking at her, but rather down at Elgun with pure hatred shining in his expression.

"…perhaps your memory of the events is…unclear?" Sand was prompting Elgun.

"Well. I was unconscious before the whole town had fallen. Perhaps I did not see all of the details," the man suggested, evidently grasping for an escape.

"Enough of this. He saw you kill the villagers," Torio said doggedly, but even as she spoke a new thought occurred to Isaviel.

"You said you fought them. Where are you cuts? Your bruises? If they knocked you out, why do you seem unhurt?"

"I…What? Oh, well…yes. I heal quickly," Elgun stumbled over all of those words, they came out in such a rush, "They must have hit me with a club on the back of the head or something."

All of a sudden, the crowd was jeering him, calling him a liar. It was _evident_ that he was lying to them, at least about something. Torio looked furious, and Isaviel fought her grin.

"It's true! I say it is," Elgun demanded, going pale.

"We had his wounds healed when he returned. We needed him healthy for the trial," Torio offered eventually, but Sand almost choked at her words.

"What were you doing welcoming home a survivor of Ember as soon as he got back? Elgun lives in Port Llast, a ward of Neverwinter. To whom do you refer when you say 'we'?" the wizard asked smugly, and Torio grew pale.

"We are not here to accuse the accuser, Sand," Oleff pointed out, and the wizard inclined his head – enough had been implied.

"Did you see the leader?" Sand asked now of Elgun.

"Yes, it was her," and he pointed to Isaviel without looking her way.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I remember her. That horrible look in her eyes…"

"I've heard enough of the liar," Isaviel whispered to Sand, and the half-Elf nodded.

"No more questions, Reverend Judge," he called.

"Very well," Oleff agreed, "Ambassador, do you have another witness?"

"Indeed, Reverend Judge. A most important witness. Unknown to many, the people of Ember were not slaughtered to the last woman and child. I call on Alaine, the last living resident of Ember, who can speak to us of what she saw on that fateful day."

Just like that, Elgun was led away, and Isaviel could breathe for a moment, though the idea of facing Alaine another time made her long for the feel of a kukri in her hand. Looking up to where Bishop had been standing, she could no longer see him. But it had been enough. He had returned.

* * *

"No! Alaine!" Shandra cried in horror when the girl from Ember identified Isaviel so unequivocally as Ember's destroyer, "Would I ever travel with someone who could do that to Ember?"

"Reverend Judge! This woman speaks out of turn," Torio pointed out sharply, but Oleff looked to Sand.

"I gladly relinquish some of my role to Shandra there," Sand smirked, but when he glanced towards Isaviel his expression was grim, "This is not good," he murmured, "We need to change the course of the river streaming from that girl's eyes or we might all die."

Alaine looked in confused anger towards Shandra, who had stood suddenly from her seat in Isaviel's stand. It did not look like the girl would listen – and she stood there, looking so youthful and sad, with tears streaking her face, all liable to sway the crowd to her side. And with them would go their deciding vote.

"I fear your friend there has been well cowed by the murderer," Torio sighed, looking towards Shandra with faked concern, "Young woman, you need not fear the accused anymore. You do not need to defend her because she threatens you; justice will be served soon."

"Silence, Torio. You speak out of turn," Nasher commanded, gesturing towards Isaviel to continue.

"Alright," the Moon Elf breathed in deeply before meeting Alaine's hateful eyes, "You know Shandra. You know that she is a good, honest woman who would not have harmed Ember."

"Of course," Alaine nodded, somehow making her words a curse, "She is a friend, who made stops at Ember every year after the harvest. It makes me hate you more to think you have threatened her."

"Alaine, that's not right," Shandra implored, "These people are using you now just like they deceived you before."

"Given that you can vouch for Shandra's character, would it surprise you to learn that she has been in Isaviel's company since before the attack on Ember?" Sand inquired shrewdly, and Alaine did a double take.

"I did not," her voice wavered a little now, and she glanced nervously back at Torio.

"I fail to see where this line of questioning is going," the Luskan ambassador sighed.

"Then let me spell it out; you have manipulated her feeble state of mind," Isaviel snapped automatically, sneering briefly at the girl before continuing, "As clearly whatever you say to her is truth in her eyes. You are quick to hate, girl, as quick to hate as you are to believe. That is not justice, that is stupidity. Shandra Jerro would not side with me on this if I were guilty, and you know that, Alaine; she is too good and too honest to let threats or anything of the sort affect the course of justice being done."

Her anger was rising now, and she could taste blood again. Sand was staring at her. Alaine had gone pale, her expression wavering as she looked back and forth between Shandra and Torio.

"Also, consider the evidence we have procured," Sand said, "Alteration powder; would that not be the obvious choice to disguise someone as your enemy and have them do your dirty work if you wanted to frame someone? Are you certain the one leading the attack you saw was Isaviel Farlong?"

"Well…I…it was someone who looked very much like her," Alaine responded quietly, wincing when Torio snorted in disgust.

"Enough of that. The witness is evidently too distraught to testify properly. I call on another witness; Shandra Jerro."

"What? No!" Shandra gasped, sitting back down suddenly as if that might stop the summons. But a pair of guards marched over to escort her, and a look at each of them was enough to make her realise things would go more smoothly if she just stepped onto the witness's spot.

"You need not fear this, Shandra," Torio simpered, "I only want justice for the people of Ember. And you were very close to them, weren't you?"

"I was but…"

"Then you surely have an obligation to speak only the truth on this matter."

"Of course but you're not…"

"Now, I would like to ask you a few questions regarding the accused's character," Torio could not help but send a brief smirk Isaviel's way as she spoke, and the Moon Elf clenched her fists so hard she was certain she must have drawn blood, "Would you say that the accused is the sort of person who could do something like this to Ember? Have they been involved in such events before?"

"No!" Shandra looked steadily to Isaviel now, shaking her head, her blue eyes wide and honest, "I know she wouldn't…it would just be so evil…"

"Are you sure? What about your home?"

"That was different. She was trying to save me, though I didn't know it at the time," the woman smiled firmly to the Moon Elf now.

"Oh, so she seemed threatening? Dangerous?"

"Yes, but…" Shandra's look was becoming more panicked, frustrated too.

"And would you vouch for her good character then? Is there anything amiss in your little travelling band? Do you trust all of them?"

"I…well…not everyone…" Isaviel's heart dropped at these words, and she shared a troubled looked with Sand. _She is being too honest_.

"Not everyone is so honest and kind as you? Could they not be deceiving you? Are you _sure_?"

"Absolutely!" Shandra exclaimed suddenly, "And what you're doing makes me angry!"

"Angry enough to attack? To kill? I see," Torio's eyes were gleaming with triumph, and Shandra was shaking. Isaviel had to breathe deeply to control herself. That great rage inside her was growing almost too strong to contain now. As soon as her unknown nature manifested itself she would lose, she knew.

"You did not let her _speak_!" Grobnar exclaimed from behind Isaviel, his voice plaintive and so full of innocence, something which set the crowd to muttering, forcing Oleff to call for silence again.

"That is all, Reverend Judge. I have heard enough," Torio declared at last, and Shandra was led, still shaking, back to her seat. She did not look at Isaviel as she went past.

"Very well. Does the accused have any witnesses?" Oleff asked, and Sand stepped forward again.

"Of course, Reverend Judge. I would like to call forth another survivor of Ember, a boy who saw much of the massacre, among other things," Sand declared, and the judge nodded once.

"Bring in the witness, identified by Alaine as Marcus."

The boy stepped forwards with an eerie sense of calm, not looking around the room or intimidated by the collectively loud mutterings of those in the balconies above. It was as if he had done this many times and was familiar with the Hall of Justice, though there was no way that this could have been possible. He had been given some new, clean clothes by his guardians in Port Llast and looked so young standing in the witness's position, the light of the morning sun streaming down all about them, bright enough to show that his eyes _were_ violet and it was not a trick of the light. With his name newly revealed it made him seem even younger to Isaviel, for it placed him in reality in a way that his mysterious anonymity had not. His parents must surely have died in that fire. Why was he not more visibly unhappy? How could he stand there so calmly and smile over at her reassuringly as an older brother might have done? His expression was blank when he glanced at Torio, and he refused to be held by her threatening stare.

"The accused and her defence may commence their questioning. I would have silence in the hall, please," Oleff commanded, and a great hush fell.

"Your name is Marcus, is it not?" Sand asked carefully, and the boy gave a nod, "Good. Marcus, can you tell me exactly what you saw at Ember?"

"I saw a group of fifteen armoured men arriving in the night, carrying torches and swords. They set the houses alight as they went and killed anyone who came close to them. I saw their leader kill the quartermaster, though he was on his knees and begging for his life," Marcus paused, his voice as steady as if he had been asked about the weather, and looked around at Torio's stand, staring, "But their leader was not who he seemed to be. One moment he bore the appearance of Isaviel, though she was without her scar, and the next he looked just like him," he pointed towards the enormous man.

All at once the room erupted in sound, several of the Luskans in Torio's stand leaping to their feet and protesting loudly as the ambassador did herself. The accused man did not move, however, except to grip the barrier in front of him tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white, a murderous glare on his face.

"This is already a farce, Reverend Judge!" Torio exclaimed over the din, "How can we trust the word of a child?"

Her demands went unanswered, however, because Nasher called for silence and Marcus continued without prompting.

"I found that powder where I had expected to find it – I think it must have dropped from his belt as they went past. I found the ring in the belt pouch of one of the men attacking the town."

"So you are telling us with all certainty that Isaviel Farlong did not attack the village of Ember? She played no part in its destruction and killed none of its people?" Sand probed.

"Yes," Marcus nodded firmly, "It was all as I had foreseen."

"Then that is all that we need to know," Sand agreed turning to Oleff Uskar.

"Ambassador Torio? Do you have questions?" the judge enquired, and Torio raised a derisive eyebrow.

"Oh, I have many, Reverend Judge. Not least: how did you see so much of the attack, child? How did you survive?"

"I hid in the well at the centre of the village."

"And all this nonsense about foresight. What could you really be referring to? Is this a pre-planned lie? After all, _they _did find you, and all of that meagre evidence came from your hands. I think you have been deceived, child. They left this 'evidence' in a cunning plan to mislead you."

"No," he said it with absolute certainty, "Though the threats the men at Port Llast gave me are supposed to have made me says 'yes'."

Isaviel found herself grinning broadly at the boy's audacity, though her anger stirred again. So there it was, the proof that the Luskans had been trying to sway the words of the witnesses who were supposed to be under impartial protection.

"Preposterous! This street urchin is a liar and a fraud," Torio all but screeched, "Claiming to have foresight and throwing accusations wildly. I have no more questions for one such as him."

"Very well," Oleff spoke as calmly and steadily as Marcus had, though his deep voice rang throughout the hall, which was now humming with expectation. His expression was grave as the boy was led away.

The Moon Elf's heart was pounding in her chest as she looked up to Nasher, Nevalle and Oleff. It was almost time for the reckoning, and she could sense Sand's anxiety as he shifted behind her. She did not look round at the wizard, nor at any of her friends in the stand behind her. It would do no good to look weak, or feel weak now.

"Before we call for the votes, is there anything more the accuser wishes to say?" Oleff asked now, and Isaviel's heart sank when she saw Torio's expression. She did not need Marcus's foresight to know what was about to be said.

"Yes, Reverend Judge, if I may," Torio said sweetly, and turned fully towards the one she branded murderer, "Isaviel Farlong…of West Harbour. It is a known fact that you left your home town – after an unexpected return – on the night that it burned to the ground. Many men, women and children died that night. From what I have heard, the destruction of that town sounds remarkably similar to that of Ember. It seems no coincidence that where you go, death follows. West Harbour, Shandra's farm, Ember. Do you deny going to these places?"

"I do not," Isaviel growled. Sand's eyes were boring into her from the side, and she could feel him imploring her to keep calm. _We are so close_.

"Do you deny having fought and killed in these places?"

"I cannot, although I only killed Giths."

"Giths?" Torio scoffed, "Ha! A desperate claim. Its ludicrousness is plain for us all to see. I suggest that it was you who massacred and burned not only Ember but also your home town of West Harbour. When first you passed through Luskan lands we made it our business to know who you really are, being a caring city over its peaceable lands. The Mayor of West Harbour spoke angrily against you. He said it was your fault that West Harbour was all but destroyed, that you fled out of guilt. That you preyed on and almost killed his youngest nephew. That you are evil, always have been evil, and you are a monster."

The words rang with furious hate, as if Georg Redfell had been there himself to say the same. Isaviel tried to bring to mind the lessons Merring had given her, but all she could imagine was his head on a spike. She imagined all the slow deaths she could bring to Torio and suddenly her rage was a monster, just as the ambassador had claimed. It rose and spread within her, hot and seething. The scar along her chest ached, as did those of her wings. A red glow grew in her pupils and flashed brightly in the sunlight. No one who saw her failed to notice the change and a great communal gasp went up in the hall. Some people scrambled back in horror.

"Demon!"

"Devil!"

"Monster!"

Her rage only grew as the insults swelled, and she knew all hope was lost for a fair trial. With a bitter sneer she let her anger take a hold of her and leapt forward, but an arm caught her and attempted to drag her back. Turning around she fully expected to see an armoured guard, but instead she saw Sand, and easily yanked herself free of his grasp. He shook his head desperately.

"Isaviel, no! This is not lost. Not yet," he denied, taking her by the wrist again, and this time she paused, long enough for the guards to form up around her, cutting her off from the reeling ambassador. Torio had not expected this either, apparently.

"Order! Order! By Tyr's just judgement!" Oleff cried, staring down at Isaviel with disappointment but no shock, utterly unlike the expressions of Nevalle and Nasher.

"What is this madness?" the Lord of Neverwinter demanded furiously, and when he stood silence fell, "I suddenly find that there are too many lies and secrets between the pair of you; accuser and accused," he glanced wearily towards Nevalle before speaking again, "The crowd is against you, Isaviel Farlong, whether they believe you guilty or not. There can be no justice here, and the trial has run for its time. The witnesses have been called and the accusations have been laid out. But we here in Neverwinter cannot judge you. By the laws of the land of the Lords' Alliance we must pass that right on to Luskan and its Low Justice," he all but spat the words.

"Thank you, Lord Nasher. You have decided wis…," Torio exulted, but Sand interrupted.

"Lord Nasher! We call upon the right of trial by combat!" the wizard cried, and Nasher's expression stilled, as if he had expected as much.

The words hung in the air as Isaviel looked immediately to the large man to see him leering at her. As if her defendant were not pre-planned as clearly as Isaviel assumed, Torio laughed light-heartedly and looked around herself as if expecting others to join in her mirth. When no one did, she affected an air of amused confusion.

"Can they be serious? Who will the monster fight? I have no training in combat."

"Then you must choose a champion. The wizard speaks the truth; it is the right of the accused to demand trial by combat when no trial of words will do," Oleff put in.

"As you say," Torio shrugged, gesturing to her stand, "I name Lorne Starling as my champion," she turned to Isaviel with a slow smirk, "He is more than a match for you, monster or not."

"A champion has been declared," Nevalle spoke now, "Both the defendant and the accused are required by law to report to the main chamber of this Temple of Justice in Neverwinter to undergo the Rite of Tyr. They must cleanse themselves in a night of prayer and vigilance. Tomorrow morning the champions shall meet in combat so that justice may be done."

"So be it," Nasher agreed, "After the Rite is observed the trial shall be held upon the morrow at the tourney grounds. Arm yourself and be ready, squire – or choose a champion for justice to be decided in this final hour."

There was a ringing in Isaviel's ears as the guards allowed her down from the platform, and she pulled her wrist free from Sand's grip, which had grown so tight over the last few moments. Her look lingered upon the one who had stood to the name of Lorne: the massive man in Torio's stand, of course. When the Moon Elf turned towards the exit she did not look to any of her friends, and she did not much care for the jeers of the crowd above. A whole city hated her, and another wanted her dead. The fearful looks of her companions would do her no good. Only victory would do, in any way that she could get it.


	18. The Path into Darkness

**Many thanks for the reviews, favourites and follows! Here's the famed trial by combat :P**

* * *

Elgun breathed a sigh of relief once he was in his simple but comfortable chamber in Castle Never. This was the section reserved for those Luskans with diplomatic immunity, like Torio. Luskan guards were everywhere, and it made him feel safer. That Moon Elf could just as likely be guilty as innocent, he told himself. She might look pretty and fragile up on that platform in that plain, girlish dress, but the scar on her cheek was clear to see and, though she tried to hide it, her expressions were cruel, cold, angry. There was no fear in her at all, not that he could see. She had caught onto all of his lies, and played him for a fool.

Sighing again, the tale teller picked up the flagon of ale left by his bedside, the first instalment of his reward. He did not get to drink, however, before he heard the creak of the floorboards behind him, and the click of the door he had so brazenly left open being closed. He did not wish to turn but eventually he did – to see that ranger, hooded and cloak, a dark bloodstain on one side of his tunic, drawing back the string of the strangest bow Elgun had ever seen. Its ends glowed red, and the string was a silver strand of magic. The arrow hummed when it flew across the room, knocking into Elgun's shoulder and pinning him back against the wall. A gloved hand covered his mouth before he could shriek from the pain.

"I told you what would happen if you carried on your lies," the ranger hissed.

_They will come. They promised they would protect me._ But there was no time. No one but the gods themselves could have saved him. He just shook his head feebly, desperately, to no avail. The ranger's expression only hardened, those dark, dark eyes so cold, his mouth a grim line. He brought up a dagger to Elgun's throat, and began to press, blood beading and trickling slowly at first.

"But you had to keep on lying. Fool."

He drew the dagger across Elgun's throat.

* * *

"Are you ready for the Rite of Tyr?" Prior Hlam asked gently as he lit a second candle, illuminating his serene face and those bright blue eyes.

"I am," Isaviel responded sharply, watching him distrustfully as he approached through the darkness to place the candle by its twin on the altar before which she stood.

For a middle aged man his face was surprisingly unlined, his physique as upright and muscular as any fighter of younger years. His robes were plain unornamented white; he stood for the Order of the Even-Handed and he had once turned Isaviel away from his doors. His lulling tone still somehow filled the long chamber of vaulted ceilings and marble columns, echoing tellingly though all of the temple's sweeping beauty was veiled in darkness, the candle on the altar forming a globe of light in which they could converse. The vast hall was done no justice by her monochrome night vision, and she had seen it a little more than a year before in all of its midday splendour, but not once since.

"I have brought you some more appropriate robes for your combat tomorrow," he handed her the bundle he had carried under his arm and though she took it from him, preferring the robes of a monk to the dress of a defenceless girl, she did so grudgingly.

"My concentration failed me today," the Moon Elf muttered reflexively as she stared down at the soft grey robes in her hands, "When I needed my training the most."

"It is not your skill we doubt, but the evenness of your heart. Should you one day come to us with a steadier soul, our answer will be different."

"I will not come," Isaviel snapped, looking up into Hlam's deceptively benign eyes.

"As you will," he smiled, "But you must put these matters from your mind. Tonight you must partake in the Rite of Tyr. You must be alone for the first phase of the Rite. It is tradition…"

Hlam's words were interrupted by a commotion at the great wooden doors at the entrance, where a golden eye of Tyr had been wrought. Khelgar shouldered roughly through, looking straight ahead towards the pair standing at the altar, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Now hold a moment," he growled, storming up towards them, "This Rite of Tyr can wait – I haven't had my say yet!"

"Khelgar, what are you doing? Why are you here?" Isaviel asked anxiously, wondering if the trial had convinced him of her guilt. His rage when he looked upon her was plain to see.

"Why am I here? _Why am I here?_ Because it's not fair, that's why! I want to take yer place. That…Torio, she's got ye matched up with a Luskan-trained killer! There's no justice in that little viper suddenly bringin' a bear out o' nowhere t' fight ye. Let _me_ fight 'im!"

"You feel it is unjust," Hlam reiterated softly for him as relief flooded through Isaviel.

"You're damned right it is! This isn't just a fight. By the gods, its honour, fairness…and the lives of you and those of Ember!"

The prior looked upon Khelgar curiously for a long moment before speaking again, turning to Isaviel.

"He does have that right. Do you wish to take this one as your champion and let him fight in your stead?"

Isaviel looked towards Khelgar's raging eyes and knew her answer immediately, though it took a moment for her to steel herself for this reality, now another choice had been put before her. Standing straight, she looked back at Hlam and shook her head.

"No. Lorne and all those backing him threaten me personally. I want to show them that I am a force they should fear, or I will die in the attempt," when she looked back at the Dwarf's understanding expression she could not bring herself to thank him, but she squeezed his shoulder and he patted her hand.

"Alright," he sighed, "But Lorne carries 'imself like a warrior. He's dangerous…so just be careful. Don't get yerself killed. We'll be watching ye out there tomorrow." He began to turn back the way he had come, as if he had not made such a dramatic entrance.

"Good Dwarf," Hlam called, "I bid you stay a while. I would have words with you once I have escorted your friend to the appropriate chamber."

Khelgar looked at the man with a mixture of curiosity and distrust on his face but stayed put as Hlam gestured for Isaviel to follow him through the plain door just behind the statue of Tyr looming over the altar. She did not look back at her friend, though she could sense his eyes on her as she stepped through the doorway after Hlam, the handle clicking shut softly behind her.

They ascended a narrow set of spiralling stone stairs in utter darkness, ancient cobwebs their only company. Ordinarily one's footsteps would have been expected to echo all the way up such a staircase and their silence was telling. Far above them Isaviel could see thick rafters and the framework of a cone-shaped roof. This must be one of the four great spires set at each corner of the main hall of the Temple of Tyr. Perhaps a third of the way up Hlam halted, opening a heavy iron door and pushing it forward with a little effort. He held it for her as she stepped past him.

The room in which she found herself was of bare stone but for the tall marble statue of Tyr, raising his hammer high, at one end, and the large blazing fireplace at the other. There were no furnishings save for the simple bench in front of the statue and a sleeping mat beside it; not a rug or even a set of curtains around the vast window in the other wall. The roof was of plain dark wood and the Moon Elf spied a rat or two scurrying along the rafters. At least she would not be alone.

"Here you will remain until we come for you in the morning. Gaze upon the face of Tyr and let him gaze upon you…if you are true to your words and deeds then you need not fear his judgement. You are permitted visitors during this time, for often justice does not solely lie in the words and deeds of the accused. You may gain strength and truth from the words of those closest to you. Those who wish to council you will be permitted up at midnight. First you must reflect alone."

Without waiting for a response, Prior Hlam left her, the door slamming shut with a clang that she heard ringing all the way up and down the spire. Sighing into the cool dimness, the Moon Elf turned her back on Tyr's face and moved closer to the fire to change into the robes Hlam had given her. She noticed that a bath had been made ready for her nearby and moved as if to unbutton her dress…only to spin around at the last second and catch the wrist of the one who sought her.

"You're not as silent as you think, ranger," she hissed as her eyes met Bishop's.

In response he sneered and caught her by the throat, leaning in closer so she could smell the blood and sweat and dirt on him. She had already noticed the red staining the side of his tunic and the way his leather jerkin was torn. But there was blood dried on the hilt of the dagger on his belt as well.

"I could kill you if I wanted to," he growled.

"Oh could you?" Isaviel leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "I don't think you could."

She only smirked coldly when his grip tightened around her throat, and he released her a moment later roughly, glaring at her when she looked him up and down, taking in his dishevelled appearance.

"I take it you came straight from the Duskwood."

"I did."

"What kept you?" Isaviel asked with as much steel as she could muster.

"Luskans," Bishop snarled, "The furthest western reaches of the Duskwood were crawling with their spies and I was tracking them, trying to find out if they'd been placed there because of Ember or not. Someone had informed on us – one of your lovely little witnesses. They knew I was there, and they caught us with arrows, the wolf and me."

"I'm surprised by your tenacity then, less by your piety. I'm supposed to be alone under the eyes of Tyr, so he can watch me while I bathe," Isaviel mocked, turning away a little to hide her fear for Karnwyr. Would Bishop mourn for the wolf if he died? She wondered.

"I didn't come back out of loyalty if that's what you mean," he snapped quickly – she did not hide her smirk at that, "You know I hate the Luskans. I won't let them win if I can help it."

"Don't tell me you've come to offer to be my champion," Isaviel snorted, and the ranger bristled even more, in spite of stepping closer.

"I don't like the look of Lorne…I think I'd quite like to kill him. But no, I won't be your champion. I wouldn't want to compete with the paladin," he sneered.

"I'm glad. I fight my own fights," Isaviel responded fiercely.

For just a moment Bishop's expression softened and he looked pleased. Either way, his next step brought him against her and there was a part of her – a small part – that wanted nothing more than to hold on to him and hide from the fear of the coming dawn. But the rest of her knew that was a foolish whim, and one that would do her no good for the coming combat. When he moved to kiss her she put a hand against his chest to stop him and he glared at her for it.

"No. You stink of the road and dried blood. Make good use of that bath, and you might just get your wish."

A grin crossed Bishop's face then. Before she could respond he caught her roughly by the hair and by the waist, dragging her against him though she fought him and kissing her until they were both clutching each other and gasping. Their struggle with their clothing was a brief one and it was not long before she pushed him into the bathing tub…and he pulled her in with him.

* * *

"It's just a statue you know," Bishop remarked languidly as Isaviel pulled on the robes Hlam had given her, "You don't need to turn your back on him. He isn't watching you…but I am. He won't be watching you tomorrow. But I will be."

"Really. Cheering me on as the great hero that I am, right?" the Moon Elf had not intended to sound so bitter about that, turning as she buckled on her belt, "They're going to wonder about the water. I obviously wasn't a bloodied and muddied traveller like you when I left the Hall of Justice."

"What does it matter?" Bishop rolled his eyes, "The priests themselves won't empty that."

"Just hurry up. I might have other guests soon."

The ranger's expression turned stormy as she spoke, standing from where he had reclined against the only bench in the room, catching the half-heartedly cleaned and even less well-dried tunic she threw at him. She bit her lip at the sight of him half-dressed like that, even with the poorly stitched wound in his side. He did not seem to notice her looking and finally pulled on his tunic, reaching for the jerkin as well, torn as it was. His sword belt followed next, and suddenly he looked very dangerous.

"Other guests," he sneered, "Don't you mean the righteous paladin and the pampered wizard?"

"Get over yourself, Bishop," Isaviel sighed, "You won't ever own me." As she turned away from him to stare into the fire she had expected some kind of retribution – he had looked angry enough – but none came.

"Fine," the ranger snarled at length, "But that doesn't mean I can't kill you myself after this is over."

"More empty threats, Bishop?" Isaviel taunted, dodging his attempt to grasp her arm and spinning around him on light feet, reaching up behind him and pressing a kiss to his shoulder before speaking in a whisper against his ear, "But one day I know they won't be. And I'll be ready for you."

A long silence followed, and when the ranger spoke again it was with a grudging tone.

"Lorne is barely keeping it together at the best of times. He's dangerous and cruel – crueller than you. He wanted to fight you at the trial, I saw it when he came in, and that's not a sign of someone in control," Bishop turned around to face her, his hands moving absently at her waist, his voice rough, "So keep hitting him, and hitting him, but don't let him get close to you. That falchion of his would cut you in half with a single swing. At some point he will go berserk too, and then he'll be most dangerous – but that will mean he's at his most desperate."

"You seem to know an awful lot about him," Isaviel noted and felt the ranger tense.

"And don't spare him. He won't spare you, not after all the trouble those Luskans have gone through to get to you."

With that he pulled away sharply, and she did not watch him leave. Instead she moved over to the long window, staring into the dark sprawl of Neverwinter beyond. Here she could see the opulent houses of the Blacklake district, neatly lined up around the deep central stretch of water which gave the place its name, twinkling with reflected starlight. Over the high district walls she could make out the Merchant Quarter, the beginning curve of the Dolphin Bridge and the walls of the Docks.

It was not long before the door opened and Prior Hlam announced that Isaviel had her first official visitor. Whether Bishop had entered and exited unnoticed or not, it did not seem to matter. Perhaps this was just another test for her character from the Temple of Tyr to prove how unworthy she was of the Order of the Even-Handed.

"I brought yer things," Duncan's voice only sounded once the door had closed, and Isaviel turned to see both her uncle and Sand standing at the centre of the room.

Her uncle was holding her weapon belt out to her and the small pouch which contained the four shards she had acquired. She smiled slightly as she took them from him, but could not meet his eyes. She feared the emotions in them, and when her glance met Sand's she turned away quickly again. Duncan put a heavy hand on her shoulder and patted a few times.

"I wish ye luck, lass. I know ye can handle yerself in battle but I can't help but wish ye'd accept the Dwarf or the paladin as yer champion."

"It was not their trial and these shards have not been forced upon them as they have been upon me," she responded coolly.

"Yer pride won't help, lass. If they choose to fight in yer name, it's no different from choosing to fight with ye for yer cause."

"But my cause is my own survival," Isaviel was quick to remind him, looking around now to meet his sad eyes and forcing herself to remain stern, though her heart was beating hard in her chest and she could imagine it rattling the shard lodged there, "If Khelgar or Casavir or anyone else died out there tomorrow, I would die in Luskan too in a far more gruesome way than I will tomorrow at Lorne's hands, no matter what he does to me."

Her uncle flinched at her words, and she could see tears in his eyes, but at last he nodded, automatically moving to wipe his hands on an apron which was not there and instead straightened his tunic uncomfortably. Nodding once to his niece and once to Sand he spoke no more words, patting her shoulder again for good measure and then leaving the room.

"I am sorry it has come to this, Isaviel. I wish we could have known Luskan wanted you sooner – we might have been able to gather more evidence," Sand sighed at length, running a hand through his hair and glancing at her sidelong.

"Perhaps. I knew Black Garius wanted me dead when Moire tried to kill me more than two and a half months ago," Isaviel pointed out, rolling her eyes in self-deprecation as she dropped her belt and the shards on her bed roll.

"True, but we could not have known that they were so determined and I did not realise how much of a hold Black Garius has over Luskan," the wizard shrugged and smiled wryly, "We will just have to make sure you dispose of Lorne tomorrow so that we can work it all out."

"And make sure it ends," the Moon Elf added sharply, approaching when he held out a bag to her. When she looked inside a wicked smile lit up her face, "Potions."

"Yes. Drink them before you go to the combat tomorrow and they will aid you against your foe."

"This isn't exactly within the rules is it, Sand?" she eyed him curiously, raising her eyebrows when he flushed.

"Well…no," he admitted, "But this is not a just fight either; so as far as I see it I am speeding you on your way to the correct outcome."

"Alright," Isaviel watched him squirm at her teasing tone, "Is there anything else you wanted to say?"

"Neeshka sends her best wishes for you and says she will be cheering you on tomorrow with the rest of us. I believe the aura of this temple makes her…uneasy. The others send their varying regards as well," Sand paused at the door, momentarily struggling with its weight before turning back and speaking so softly she could barely make out the words, "Good luck, Isaviel."

The Moon Elf nodded to him as he left, more in acceptance of his words and deeds than thanks, and seated herself upon the bench, still keeping her back to Tyr's righteous stare. Though it was late, and it had been a long day, she felt too nervous to consider seeking any sleep. Instead she took to sharpening and polishing her various weapons. When next the door opened the candles at each end of the bench had burned low; it must have been about three hours to the dawn. She did not look up from her work, and was surprised by the voice she heard addressing her.

"Let me be your champion," Shandra offered, "It's not right that you are being treated this way by the Luskans."

"I've explained several times by now why that's an offer I won't accept," the Moon Elf responded, glancing up to see the woman was dressed in a fine mail shirt with sturdy leather gloves, breeches and boots, a shortsword from Leldon's hideout at her hip though she was oblivious of its origins, "Where did you get your fancy new armour?"

"Nevalle had it made for me. He said it was part of the compensation for the burning of my home."

"What would Neverwinter have to do with that?" Isaviel balked, "Are you sure the rest of the 'compensation' isn't a night in Nevalle's chambers? It's not like Nasher sent those Giths."

"I don't know," the woman brushed it aside, seeing straight through her arch tone, "And if you keep pushing me away like that I might get tired of trying to help."

"I'm not pushing you away," the Moon Elf denied, "I'm being frank."

"You're being cold," Shandra corrected, approaching regardless and taking a seat on the bench beside Isaviel, "And I understand. It's because you're nervous, and that's alright," when she put her hand over the Moon Elf's, Isaviel looked up suspiciously, pulling away and returning to sharpening her blade, "But we're your friends and we're here to help you. You saved me twice and I'd like to be able to return the favour. Torio showed me up at the trial, and I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful today."

"Even in all that fancy new gear you aren't good enough with a blade yet to face Lorne," Isaviel stated, and Shandra nodded in acceptance.

"That's true, but I'm improving every day. Casavir is a willing and patient teacher, fortunately."

It was true enough that Isaviel had to accede those words with a nod, spinning her kukris in her hands and glancing at Shandra's impressed expression at her little tricks. An idea occurred to her, but she had her curiosity to sate first. They had quite some time until the dawn.

"Do you not want to return to your life as a farmer? Can't you persuade your new friend Sir Nevalle to build you a new barn?"

"He did offer me the money for it," Shandra admitted, "But I refused. The harvest season is over and winter is on its way. And what's to say the Giths wouldn't come after me again as soon as I was out of your protection? They said they'd stopped hunting you, not that they'd stopped searching for the rest of this silver sword you're getting together. It might be that they need me to get into Haven, even if it's not with a pint of blood. I want to be able to defend myself against them and I want to help your cause because what the Luskans want is unfair and you'll be safer once you have all the shards."

"You're very certain of that," the Moon Elf pointed out, "I for one have no idea what it will mean once I've got all the pieces I can of this silver sword, or what good it will do me to get to Haven. But…I'm glad to have you with me. And though you can't be my champion, perhaps you could help me practice to pass the time?"

Isaviel stood, taking up both her kukris and twirling them about herself, easily falling into the steps that were so familiar to beginning weapon training. An arc, a twist, a spin, a lunge, a run and a flip. Shandra was gawping at her when she landed on two feet, but stood with a half-smile and drew her shortsword.

"Alright. But something tells me I won't win."

Isaviel laughed at that, momentarily sheathing her kukris to twist her hair back into a bun. She had never practiced with Shandra before and knew it could be interesting. Khelgar, Casavir and Duncan often did, and they fought in a very different way from the Moon Elf.

"Yes, but you wouldn't want me to go easy on you, would you?"

* * *

When Sir Nevalle came to collect Isaviel at the dawn he found the Moon Elf seated ready upon the bench by the statue, Shandra asleep on the bedroll. The candles and the fire had both grown cold and the early rays of sunlight were attempting to peer through the dark, thick clouds that had come creeping in through the night.

"It is time," he stated simply as Shandra sat up blearily.

The Moon Elf stood with an expressionless nod, her weapon belt already buckled around her hips. Only moments earlier she had quaffed the potions Sand had given to her, and she could already feel their effects. She felt just that little bit stronger and steadier, her movements surer.

"Torio and Lorne await you on the field. Nasher wished to communicate the importance of this battle both for you and for Neverwinter," the knight of the Neverwinter Nine added.

"Really. This is a battle for my life," Isaviel told him sourly, "And your lord's 'fair city' turned against me at the last. For all I know, he would prefer that I lose."

"This is a great honour, to fight for your homeland. It is indeed for Neverwinter that you fight, because it is widely known that the Luskans have set you up here, no matter how much…esteem your character is held in by the people."

"I have no homeland," she corrected him icily now that Shandra had collected herself and taken a stance by her side, "And I have no honour. Now take me to the tourney grounds, and let's get this over with."

* * *

Shandra had been right; winter was drawing in. But first they had to contend with the chill sting of the relentless autumn rain, tinkling audibly on Lorne's plate metal pauldrons even across the distance of the tourney grounds. The crowd members were shivering violently under the awnings in the two tiered stands which, facing each other, ran the length of the rectangular stretch of worn grass. No one had trodden that earth yet, but Isaviel did not doubt it was deceptively unmarred by the rain. Every wrong step would be a death trap in this weather. At least they had removed the barrier ordinarily raised between two charging knights at the joust in tourneys; the combat that was about to be fought was different by far from the sports of the highborn.

Grobnar was strumming tunelessly on his lyre, peering down over the wall of the stand where it curved by Isaviel's waiting spot. Most of her companions were arrayed near him, some staring across the grounds to Lorne, others looking to the Moon Elf. Duncan and Sal had come as well, uncomfortable in the jostling crowd and looking strange to her eyes in their dark 'best clothes' which they had unearthed for this event – as had all of the others. They were surrounded by the richer members of society, though relegated to the places for the least affluent people invited to the combat. Casavir looked particularly handsome in his black velvet doublet – but the colours they had all chosen also looked like they had come to mourn, not to cheer her on.

"Good luck out there, Isaviel," Shandra told her from her place by the Moon Elf's side, wrapped tightly in a thick cloak.

"I'll do my best," Isaviel muttered absently, trying to stamp the mud from her boots to no avail as Lord Nasher, Sir Nevalle and Reverend Judge Oleff Uskar were all announced in a ringing tone that only just cut through the howling wind.

"May the combatants enter the arena," Nasher called and for the second time in two days Isaviel's path was laid out before her by the opening of a barred gate.

"It's times like this that I feel like your squire," Shandra sighed as the Moon Elf passed her cloak to her along with the pack containing the shards.

"Well maybe after this you can be," Isaviel managed a wink, glancing at the bag containing the shards and sharing a pointed look with Shandra, "Take good care of those for me. If I do die today, don't let the Luskans have them."

With that she stepped through the open doorway into the tourney grounds to the jeers and excited shouts of the crowd. If she survived this she would be famous throughout Neverwinter, she realised. Her tunic was already soaked through without her cloak, and it was all she could do to stop her teeth chattering in the cold. She could hear Duncan and Neeshka urging her on as she approached Lorne, and she was careful to keep eye contact with the great brute whose sneer would have her believe that he did not fear her. If that were truly the case, then he was a fool. She had to believe _that_ instead as they met at the centre of the field, the grass squelching audibly beneath his heavy boots, leaving deep uneven prints all the way back to the now closed gate through which he had stepped.

"You're a small thing, Elf," he noted in a deep, growling voice, hefting his great falchion so that its broad blade sang in the rain, droplets glancing off its surface to glint red, "I'll snap you like a twig."

Isaviel smirked at his words, resting her hands on the hilts of her kukris, gripping firmly to try to combat the rain which made them so slippery. He was more than a foot and a half taller than her, probably three times her weight, but Sand's potions had fortified her and she felt no need to retort to Lorne's goads.

"The two combatants have observed the Rite of Tyr and prepared themselves for this battle," Nasher proclaimed from his central seat in the stand to Isaviel's right, "May Tyr bless this day and grant us a just victor. Ready yourselves in these last moments."

"Fight!" someone in the crowd yelled out.

"You may begin," Oleff called.

Lorne's falchion was far larger and longer than a normal blade of its type with an arced end which resembled a hammer. He wielded it two handed, and its red sheen betrayed its enchantment. Isaviel was ready for his first swing, ducking low and touching one knee to the ground, pushing off as hard as she could at the same time as unsheathing her kukris in order to dodge his reversed swing. She heard the crowd gasp as she feinted a roll, sending Lorne lunging in the wrong direction as she stood straight again.

Flicking her left arm around, she deftly cut through the fastenings of his right pauldron, causing it to swing and screech loudly against his chainmail tunic, spraying rain droplets in an arc around him, limiting his right arm's movement. With a growl he span around, aiming a backhand her way, forcing her to duck again, only this time her other kukri snapped out even as he moved to defend himself, cutting upward beneath his arm and drawing blood. It barely seemed to bother him and he advanced towards her even as she danced away, wiping the rain from her eyes, but the blood trickled visibly down to his elbow.

Lorne's next swing came a little too quickly for Isaviel's liking, his footsteps far steadier on the slick ground than she wanted, as well. The blade hummed through the air barely an inch above her face as she arched backward, sheathing one kukri and pressing her freed palm against the wet earth to allow her to kick upwards and spring. Her boot collided satisfyingly with his chin, forcing his head to snap back so that he staggered. Somersaulting to right herself, she flicked a shuriken in his direction for good measure, but he seemed to have expected something of that ilk and brought his falchion up to deflect it. Catching the returning projectile, Isaviel was forced to spin away again…and again.

Their brutal dance continued for what felt like an eternity to the Moon Elf; he would swing and she would dodge, she would slash and draw a line of blood. He did not seem to slow, but rather to gain in momentum, and she was growing tired. Though blood ran from wounds in a dozen places from Lorne's body and he had been forced to tear free his pauldron, the rage and ferocity that he had begun with seemed to have doubled, not to have dimmed. She had to dare to do something risky, and she had to do it soon, before the effects of the potions wore off and she was too weak from fatigue.

Thus it was that when Lorne lunged next, the axe-shaped end of his blade aimed for her throat, Isaviel twisted only a little to one side, bringing up her right kukri in as hard a movement as she could to help deflect the blade. In that moment she felt the psionic power she had tried to learn to harness with Merring hum down her arms and _heard _but did not _see_ how the kukri continued to rotate in one quick circle around the falchion, not listening to the crowd's amazed gasps. Instead, she used the advantage she had gained from jarring his motion and brought the heel of her freed hand up to his vulnerable shoulder, hearing a satisfying crunch as the two connected. He did flinch then, grunting in pain, and without looking she caught her falling kukri, using its gained momentum and cutting up and across. The great brute yelled then as his left hand was all but severed from his arm and the falchion swung into his right hand only. But he did not give up, fury seeming to take him over. Isaviel heard several familiar voices shout her name over the excited yells of the crowd, but she did not have time to dodge this time, too taken aback by her own instinctive actions.

Lorne gritted his teeth against the pain in his right shoulder, which crunched horribly as he moved it, and brought the pommel of his weapon up to collide with the back of the Moon Elf's head. Lights flashed at the back of Isaviel's eyes and pain shot blindingly through her skull as she stumbled forward and dropped to the earth. She could hear Sand and Neeshka shouting and shouting to her, warnings and desperate words, but they seemed so far away. There was only the fight for her life that mattered, not the fears of her loved ones.

Throwing herself onto her back Isaviel was forced to bring out a kukri to slow the descent of the wickedly sharpened end of the falchion, aimed for her throat yet again. The metal edges screeched against each other and the din of the crowd rang in her ears as Isaviel managed to roll away, leaving one kukri behind as she leapt to her feet. It was not just Lorne's blade that flashed red now, but also his eyes. _The berserk rage Bishop spoke of_. His left arm hung limp, pouring blood onto the wet ground, grass and mud churning around the berserker's feet as he moved, splashing red against his boots. Although he had been forced to drop his falchion because of his broken shoulder, he ran. And he ran at her.

Pain still echoing in her head, Isaviel closed her eyes, and the members of the crowd sucked in their breath collectively. They thought she had given up, stunned by the blow he had given her, but as Lorne reached her she became one with the cool rain and appeared to dissolve in the dim autumn air, forcing him to come up short, skidding on the slippery ground and falling to one knee.

Unseen, Isaviel vaulted backwards, sending a shuriken flying from each hand towards him as she returned to visibility. This time Lorne could not dodge and their serrated edges bit deep, one into his already injured shoulder and the other into his neck. The light in his eyes seemed to wane, and he fell to his other knee, rain droplets streaming down his face and dripping from his chin unchecked. A brief glance back towards where her friends were gathered showed Neeshka and Sand both leaning forward against the railing – which both were gripping hard – while Casavir had a restraining hand on Duncan's shoulder. Bishop had said he would be watching. Where was he? Then she saw him, and a shiver went up her spine, for he was just beyond the closed gate which had locked her into this place, perhaps permitted so close because of Shandra's innocent honesty. _He wants the shards_. There was no fear or even anxiety on his face. Just a deep frown and a threatening look, and he was moving closer to the blonde woman, her own eyes locked on Isaviel with intense, oblivious concern.

Pushing aside thoughts of her friends and allies, Isaviel approached quickly as Lorne fell onto his side in the dirt, blood flowing freely now. He watched her without expression as she picked up his dropped falchion and hefted it in both hands. The crowd had grown deadly still as the Moon Elf placed her foot on his chest and raised the weapon above his neck.

"You think you have won?" he spat, "You have won nothing! Garius lives, and he will not be stopped by the likes of you."

"Lorne Starling, do you yield?" Lord Nasher called into the ringing silence, glancing momentarily with evident satisfaction towards Torio whose face had turned white with rage.

"I…do," the fighter admitted in a growl.

"Do you wish to spare him, Isaviel Farlong?"

"I do not." And with those words, she forced the blade down with all the strength she had, severing his head and dropping the falchion by her feet as she stepped away, shaking with rage and exhaustion.

"Then justice has been served, and the accusers' champion is dead. Tyr has willed that you are not guilty," Oleff claimed, standing now, his face a non-judgmental mask, "You are free to go as you will."

Relief should have flooded through her, but instead she looked towards Bishop and at last understood. The crowd did not know whether or not to cheer, though many began to take up that cry. They had an unswerving confidence in Tyr's justice, evidently. But there was one more judgement Isaviel had to make, and it involved revenge.

* * *

The air was so cold, and the winds had not stopped howling all day. To add to it all, the waves not too far away from the roadside camp were crashing heavily and ceaselessly against the pebbled shore. She wondered how anyone could sleep in such conditions, but several of the guards around her were snoring contentedly on their bedrolls, more up and alert patrolling the camp, or gathered around the fire warming their hands and conversing in whispers. She did at least feel safe, and was learning to fear the flames less. In spite of the cold, she had not dared go near the campfire, however. Because of her fear, she had been allowed a bed a little out of the way from the rest of the camp, furthest from the road and behind a boulder or two. It should have been impossible for anyone to infiltrate far enough to reach her, should they have wished.

Rubbing at her eyes, the young woman sat up against the rock behind her…only to have her ensuing attempt to scream stifled by a hard, gloved hand. A slight, darkly cloaked figure pressed a knife to her throat with their free hand, rage evident in large eyes which glinted an odd, swirling grey in the moonlight. Momentarily they flashed gold when the fire grew bright enough to illuminate them properly.

"You informed on us," the hooded aggressor hissed, and the sound of the Moon Elf's voice made Alaine's heart still, "You wanted to believe we were guilty, just to see someone die for the destruction of your pathetic town, never seeing that the real murderers were the ones pretending to bow to your every need."

Alaine shook her head in desperate denial, fresh tears springing to her eyes. Though the knife remained at her throat, Isaviel allowed her to speak. The girl wondered why she did not expect her to scream – and wondered at herself for not doing so. There was something about the overt rage the Moon Elf displayed…it seemed real, yes, but too honest as well. It did not look at all like the cold calculating malice in the eyes of her imposter-self back at Ember, and at last Alaine understood.

"They threatened me. I have family in Waterdeep, and they threatened to kill them if I didn't say the things I did. Please, you have to believe me…"

"But you did believe I was guilty."

"I _saw_ you. Or someone who looked like you. I had no reason to believe elsewise, even if the Luskans were threatening me," she admitted, and saw the rage flicker and begin to wane in Isaviel's eyes. The dagger moved away a little, "Please don't kill me. I won't tell anyone…"

"Ha! You've proven yourself easy to threaten, it's true," the Moon Elf sounded bitter, "Even if you do tell them I was here…there won't be any evidence. They will think you had a bad dream."

"But that wouldn't do your vengeful soul any good, would it?" a sarcastic male voice sneered, and the Moon Elf's head snapped around to regard the man approaching them, also hooded, a large bow strapped to his back.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, automatically clamping a hand over Alaine's mouth when the girl threatened to call for help, struggling briefly. The man frightened her far more than the Moon Elf ever could. There was evil in his eyes. It could have been _him_ at Ember.

"Come to watch the show," he affected an innocent, hurt tone, "The vengeful, wronged _hero_ come to kill the helpless little bitch there. The Hells know, she deserves it," his voice was a growl now as he looked to Alaine and she scrambled back, whimpering in fear against Isaviel's hand.

"Shut up," the Moon Elf spat at him, "This is my business."

"Oh? Is it? I recall that I was the one they tried to fill with arrows, all thanks to her pathetic little wagging tongue."

"And it was her words that meant I had to fight trial by combat, most likely," saying that, the Moon Elf brought up the dagger again, but her hand was shaking. Were her eyes full of tears?

"Do it," the man hissed, sounding so hopeful and cruel with those two simple words, "Do it. She _deserves _it."

The knife came no closer, however, and instead Isaviel's grip grew ever tighter on the hilt of the dagger, quivering visibly now, until with a frustrated gasp she pulled it away, sheathing it with a tell-tale ringing sound. Alaine relaxed a little then, though her attempts to pull free from the restraining gloved hand over her mouth proved fruitless. The Moon Elf's eyes were golden again when she dared to look back at the young woman, and she looked guilty and sad and utterly spent.

"You stupid bi…"

"Shut _up_," the Moon Elf told the raging man with a hiss, "They'll hear us."

With a derisive grunt he turned and vanished back into the darkness, and the Moon Elf slowly released Alaine.

"I can't apologise for my anger…and I won't," she admitted, "But I know how it feels to have your home destroyed, and to rely on unknown relatives in an unfamiliar city. I know how it feels to be hunted…but I also know how to defend myself."

Alaine watched Isaviel in silent confusion as the Moon Elf drew a dagger from her belt and offered it to the girl hilt first. Tentatively she took it, turning it over in her hands and watching it gleam silver and reflective in the faint light. She saw her own frightened blue eyes looking back at her for a second.

"If _he_ ever comes after you, use that. Don't hesitate."

When Alaine looked up, Isaviel had gone, leaving her alone and shivering in the dark.


	19. Friends of Old

"You said you would tell me about your time at Luskan," Isaviel's voice made Sand start from the book over which he was bent, the low-burning candle on his bedroom desk flickering at his startled outbreath.

"Did no one teach you to knock?" he suggested, gathering his wits as he stood from his chair to turn and face the Moon Elf, who stood on the top step of the stairs leading up to this mezzanine area which he called his bedroom.

"The golem let me in readily enough," Isaviel shrugged, not moving from her place in the darkness, her eyes flashing gold in the candlelight, her hair like a second dark cloak about her shoulders.

The wizard felt irrationally vulnerable in his half-laced tunic and simple breeches. He was without doublet and boots, in as dishevelled a state as the Moon Elf had ever seen him. Sand pushed aside his automatic fear, in spite of her cruel expression, noticing that she was unusually poorly armed. Just the kukris on her hips today, not her bow or any of her daggers. Her boots were muddier than they had been when last he saw her, as was her cloak, and he could not help but wonder where she had been. Duncan had said she had been absent for three days after the death of Lorne with not a word to anyone, and Sand suspected that had something to do with it.

"You have chosen an interesting time to question me on this matter, have you not?"

"And you have been avoiding me," Isaviel pointed out, "I think you owe me some answers. Luskan has treated me poorly of late, and I want to know where your allegiances lie."

"Hypocritical, coming from one who stalks the streets with one of that very city," Sand sighed, pulling on a long jacket and heading past her down the stairs. She did not respond and instead followed him to the ground floor, not even blinking when he lit his fire with a simple cantrip and the cluttered room flared with dull orange light.

"Very well, if you wish to know of Luskan, I will tell you of Luskan. I think you will be disappointed, although you may learn more of yourself."

He pulled back a chair for her, though he preferred to stand, and she took it, watching him as he paced by the fire, her expression unreadable. Six days had passed since the combat and he had managed to avoid her scrutiny, seeing that she seemed so ready to distrust him as she did with everyone else. Sand had spent his time selling his potions and other wares during the day and studying his spells throughout the night. When he could he had been travelling to the city's libraries to learn more of the shards, and of Haven and anything he could about Isaviel's heritage. He had recently uncovered some interesting pieces of information, but there had been no opportunity to speak with the Moon Elf.

Duncan informed him that she was spending ever more time with Bishop (a polite way of inferring to the wizard that the pair were sleeping together, no revelation for him) and undoubtedly working for Neeshka's guild as well. The way she watched him now unsettled him, for the look in her eyes was bleak, the set of her mouth hard in a way it never had been before. She was thinner, but stronger; practicing her acrobatics, her bow and her monk training daily no doubt. She had also begun combat training with several of her friends; Shandra no doubt helped her ego, honest and willing to learn as she was, and her kindness could go a long way for Isaviel. But she also trained with Bishop, and his cruelty was as damaging as his greater strength was clearly proving useful to her own improvements.

"Well?" the Moon Elf prompted impatiently while Sand paused, momentarily letting his thoughts distract him; he sent her a disapproving frown.

"Torio did not lie. I did indeed once work for the Hosttower, though it was two decades ago now. After Shayla and Esmerelle died in the Battle of West Harbour our adventuring band went its separate ways. Daeghun and Shayla had been eager to settle down and had been unwilling to continue for half of the decade in which we were officially travelling together. He became taciturn and distant after her death and devoted himself to his life in West Harbour and your upbringing." _Was that a vain hope?_

"Enough of my foster father, you all tell me too readily of his love for me but I never saw any of that. You didn't have to live with him."

"Cormick joined the Watch here, ever honest and noble – he reminds me a lot of Shandra. As for Tarmas and I…we had grown up together even before we met Daeghun or Cormick. We both lived in Neverwinter's Merchant District at that time. But my father was from the bloodline of Myth Drannor, as was your Esmerelle, and in our teens he taught us both much of magic. He had been brought up in Waterdeep and been educated in magic at Candlekeep where he remained as a scholar for some two centuries; my mother was from Rashemen, a place famous for its fear of magic but also for its witches, and the ever-present threat of nearby Thay and its Red Wizards. She had a healthy respect for magic then, and feared what the Hosttower stood for as only a Rashemi could. But her fears and my father's lessons together only fuelled my interest in magic. Especially after all the stories Esmerelle told me of her adventures; she talked of the great wizards of Thay who she had fought during her time as a mercenary in the Rashemi army, of Rashemen's own witches with their ever-present masks. She had dared to disguise herself with a former love and go down to Menzoberranzan in the Underdark, that famed city of beautiful magical adornment. She learned of Myth Drannor – our shared ancestral home, through my father. Also of Rashemen and its myths, which I believe may interest you…"

"Why would that be?" Isaviel inquired, sounding far more curious than she would have wished to show through her apparent sarcasm, "And this has little to do with Luskan."

"Oh, but it does, because all of these teachings and stories only added to my fascination with the wizarding arts, and once I had reached adulthood and had a few adventures of my own I wanted nothing more than to learn the secrets of the Hosttower. They hold many artefacts within their walls, and both Tarmas and I had been somewhat naïve in our understanding of what went on there. He did not make it through the initiations and for a time we were estranged while he went to live nearer Daeghun in West Harbour, given an undercover post for the Neverwinter Watch by Cormick, in truth. I was more…determined to reach my goal. Less constrained by morality, perhaps. I remained in their service for almost a decade."

"So you do not pretend to have quailed at the Hosttower's requirements?" Isaviel demanded, leaning forward in her chair and affecting a threatening air. It was Sand's turn to sneer.

"Sit back, _girl_. You can't threaten me. I have three decades on your age, and all sixty years of my life have been spent in diligent and focused practice of the wizarding arts. You have been less disciplined, I know. My restraint in showing my power does not represent any lack of it, trust me."

Isaviel looked a little guilty, running a hand through her dark air until it fell again to pool around her shoulders and down the back of her chair. But her expression remained hard and her other hand rested close to the hilt of her kukri. It made Sand sad to see her distrust.

"I did not 'quail' at them…at first," Sand admitted at length, leaning on the mantelpiece now and staring into the newly summoned flames, "But their demands worsened, and I became increasingly aware that not all they did was to improve their personal power and knowledge in magic. They wanted to control the city, and to compete against each other. To kill each other, and anyone else who stood in their way, as well as any innocents in the city who might have affected their rises to power. Your lovely Black Garius is one such. I could not face that, and when they started to try to force me into their politics and scheming I refused and fled the city. As an informer I found refuge in Neverwinter and my payback for the protection they gave to me has been to act as a spy for the Neverwinter Nine in the Docks."

"Against Moire," Isaviel stated flatly, her expression darkening.

"Yes. And didn't she treat you _so_ well."

"Did you ever inform on me?"

"No, first for love of Duncan and Daeghun. Now I refrain for you, and it puts me at great pains to cover my tracks. They know, though I do not say. Perhaps Cormick is less loyal than I to my companions of old."

She looked surprised at his words, and much of her aggressive demeanour lifted, her eyes brightening, the line of her lips softening. Her hand moved away from her kukri, tapping absently on the table. She was on edge still, he could see clearly, but at least she believed him. He felt comfortable enough to move closer, and perched on the edge of the table near her. When he stilled her hand with his own she looked up at him with eyes that showed a great deal of fear. There it was, all that youth she hid behind her anger. Though she had lived for three decades, as an Elf who could expect to naturally last for almost another seventy she was still so young at heart.

"You cannot let the others cloud your perception so much," he told her softly, and something about the way he said it seemed to keep her from retorting – though her expression flickered and it looked like she wanted to, "Bishop is so jaded and Shandra is so blind. Casavir and Elanee are too idealistic, Khelgar too headlong, Qara too headstrong, Grobnar is a fool, Neeshka is too selfish and Duncan loves you too much."

"What does that make you?"

"Me?" he schooled his expression carefully, "I am too _restrained_."

She smiled at that and quirked an eyebrow but looked away, her hair veiling her face from his view as she spoke.

"You mentioned my mother."

"Ah, yes," Sand smiled wryly, "Daeghun really did tell you nothing. My family was closely connected with her – and if it had not been for Esmerelle, I would never have been born. You see, Esmerelle had a love for several far-distant lands from here, but none more so than Rashemen. My mother was from Immilmar, the capital of that nation. They met when Esmerelle was travelling there; your mother had long ago divorced my half-brother, though as I have told you before, they remained fast friends and she always made the effort to go and visit him and my father.

"My – human – mother proved herself worthy of Esmerelle's friendship and they travelled much together for perhaps two years. Eventually, they ended up in Baldur's Gate, where my brother lived near my father's then-home of Candlekeep. It was then that Esmerelle introduced my mother and father to one another. After that, Esmerelle was gone for over a decade. My brother suggested that she might have gone as far south as Chult; when I spoke to her she had definitely been to Winterkeep in the Great Wastes beyond Rashemen, and she mentioned the great Castle Perilous in Damara. She had acted as a mercenary guarding caravans in Calimshan…and I think she may well have…well…" he could not help but pause, seeing how still Isaviel had become. She had not moved her hand from under his and at last he thought to let go, moving back over to the fire.

"You knew her well," the Moon Elf noted softly, and Sand did not deny it.

"I did, better than Duncan and Daeghun, but never so well as Shayla. My brother would have been the one to ask about these things, however. He was far older than I – far older than my mother as well, don't forget – and he and Esmerelle travelled together for perhaps a century many, many years before she met my mother. It is…a little unorthodox, but my brother never seemed to bear her any ill will for it, his mother having died long before, and it never seemed to bother my father. He loved my mother greatly, if I do say so myself. He did not long outlive her."

"Where is your brother now?"

"I…" Sand paused, feeling that familiar pang, "I do not know. We were never very close, for he has nearly three centuries on my age and just as much wanderlust as Esmerelle did. Last I heard of him, he had travelled to Evermeet, that fabled island refuge of the Elves, two decades ago."

"But where else did my mother go? Why did you hesitate?" Isaviel demanded, quick to change the subject – Sand wished he could believe it were for the preservation of his feelings, but in truth it looked more like impatience.

"Esmerelle…she spoke in such great detail of the planes. I believe she may have been more bound up in this Battle of West Harbour than the others know. Giths, demons, devils, shadows – they all fought in that great battle; denizens of the Shadow Plane, the Astral Plane, the Abyss and the Nine Hells. She had a fascination with such places and she would have loved to have lived through the Time of Troubles. That time made Faerûn aware of the gods and their lands as it never had been before. Many saw Helm deny Mystra a return to her own plane. And we all know the stories of those who, not yet gods, even before that turbulent era, travelled to the Fugue Plane, to the gates of the City of Judgement when Jergal was then god of the dead."

"Yes, yes, but what does this have to do with anything?"

"A great deal, I fear," Sand sighed, directing her towards the alcove and his personal work table, upon which were strewn a multitude of tomes and scrolls, "As I have been trying to find out more on your heritage, something Daeghun and Merring so utterly failed to do, I have been going through my old journals, to see if there is anything Esmerelle told me that may be of use. Eventually, I came upon a story she told me. I do not remember it in any great detail, but it seems…relevant."

"Go on," the Moon Elf urged, though there was nervousness in her tone.

"She told me an ancient Rashemi tale, of Akachi the Betrayer, an inhabitant of her old home of Mulsantir several millennia ago. Somehow he became a seneschal of the god of death of the time, Myrkul, but for some reason turned against his god. Wielding a silver sword of the Githyanki he led a great army against the City of Judgement and, inevitably, lost. He and his bloodline were afflicted with a curse, which has manifested itself in many ways over the ages. Every few centuries it comes about that there is a 'Spirit Eater', one who must devour the spirits of the living to survive. It is a Rashemi myth, as far as I can make out, used to frighten children and suchlike. But it is said that those of Akachi's bloodline manifest a fierce temper, an uncontrollable rage at times, and that in this madness their eyes glow red."

"A pointless myth," Isaviel shrugged his words aside, "If you think that explains my heritage you are a fanciful fool. What about my wings? And how many other potential explanations are there?"

"True. It was but a thought. Esmerelle spoke ever more often about this in the last few years that I knew her, and I know she had a new love in Rashemen. There may be some connection, at least. Either way, he wielded a silver sword, as you have the pieces of one – and I would assume one must have shattered at the Battle of West Harbour for a shard to lodge in your chest."

"What's to say it's the same one?"

"I do not know that it is. There have been very few lost by the Githyanki from what I can uncover in the histories. Eveshi, Akachi's son, fled with his silver sword, and it was through him and his half-human, unnamed brothers that the curse is said to have spread. _He_ was a deva, a former servant of a god, with great power of his own. Wherever he chose to flee…it may be that it _is _the same sword. No more than five were ever known to have been successfully stolen from the Giths."

When Sand looked back at Isaviel she was regarding him doubtfully. He had told her far more than he had expected to, and they had been conversing for far longer than either intended. It was almost morning; the birds were beginning to chirp and sing to the dawn, even while the cold wind and rain buffeted the walls of his house, rasping against the windows in his kitchen area and by the door.

"All I know for certain is that Ammon Jerro, once a court wizard in Neverwinter, owned a silver sword. His haven is presumably far closer than Rashemen, or at least has a nearer entrance point, and he was a scholar; he probably made written records," Isaviel pointed out, "That is where I must go to find more answers, and if you or Aldanon can find it for me, then that would be far more useful. I do not think knowing who my father is, or the horror stories of my mother's…homeland will make any of this go away. Zeeaire spoke of the return of the King of Shadows. I haven't seen any evidence of him yet, but I want to be ready. Black Garius feared that I might collect all the pieces of this silver sword, and I gained the first at the Battle of West Harbour, where that King of Shadows was last defeated. None of that is coincidence."

She spoke with steady resolve, as if Sand's speculation had not shaken her. He felt guilty for having told her of those Rashemi stories, for she had grown pale and still as he spoke, her eyes wide and anxious. Perhaps it would do no good to learn more of her heritage, or of what it _might_ be with so much more to fear. Still, it unsettled him how much Daeghun had kept a secret from her. That did not seem right, either.

"Thank you for being honest…and for telling me more of my mother," Isaviel mumbled uncomfortably now, standing and wrapping her cloak about herself, pulling her deep hood as far forward as it would go. He could only see her lips as she spoke now, "But I should go. I have asked Cormick to contact Aldanon for any more news on Haven. I cannot afford to sit still and lose my focus now the Luskans have been pushed off my trail. I don't know how much time I have to spare."

"Isaviel?" he asked it on impulse just before she reached the door, and when she looked back all of her hard façade was gone. She looked so vulnerable and afraid! "Did Bishop kill Elgun or did you?"

"Would you tell the Watch of my answer?"

"No," the wizard replied, at once guilty for that admission and guilty for being doubted so.

"It was him," her voice broke ever so slightly on the last word, though her face was still and there were no tears in her eyes. She wavered just before the doorway as the wizard approached, "But I almost killed the girl." _Alaine_.

"You did not do it, though," Sand stated carefully, without a doubt in his tone, "Your anger almost got the better of you, but it did not succeed."

"No. And I won't let him kill her either. She was stupid and easily misled…but I don't think that makes her guilty. If we want vengeance then it's Torio or Black Garius, maybe both, who should answer for it."

"Better," the wizard nodded, "But I must say I am more pleased by your mercy than I am by your requirement for revenge."

"Aren't you too restrained, though?"

She tried to laugh, but it almost came out as a sob. He pulled her into a hug for that, and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as his settled around her shoulders. She felt so small, shivering against him, her cheek against his shoulder.

"Yes. That is evidently not a fault of yours," he conceded, "Though it is not restraint which I council, but rather…more trust in yourself. And yes, I admit it, a little more discipline. That way you might not go around threatening defenceless girls at all."

"I gave her a knife…to defend herself. I thought it was all I could do…I felt so…guilty."

_Better that you keep them all around you for when he turns on you. _

* * *

In spite of Isaviel's wishes for haste, the days passed and became weeks. Sand still toiled, pouring over tomes and annals, delving as far into the past as his knowledge of Illefarn and Illuskan script and language would allow, he assured her. None of it seemed likely to be enough. She had heard no word from Aldanon, and there were still no signs of this threat 'the King of Shadows' who Zeeaire had mentioned with such venom. It felt strange to be without a way of moving forward, no clear path to take. She could not just step forth on a journey as a stepping stone for furthering her situation. Instead she had to wait, and wait…and wait.

Neeshka preferred to stay in her hideout, employing Bishop and Isaviel as her lieutenants along with Mae'rillar. The Drow was quiet, withdrawn…and undoubtedly very dangerous. Isaviel wondered how they had met, but did not doubt what held them together; the bond of mutual alienation from Neverwinter society. That and a love of gold and trickery. Meanwhile, Khelgar, Shandra and Casavir all had varying posts in the Watch, for which Isaviel remained a lieutenant, thanks to the combat skill which Cormick had emphasised she possessed. She was officially on leave from that post thanks to the trial by combat. As for Elanee, the druid spent much of her time in the wilds outside, not suited to city life, and Grobnar did not seem to lack for money. Qara remained at The Sunken Flagon, employed originally for her debt and now because she seemed to have nowhere else to go.

Shandra was becoming a strong and challenging opponent; that was satisfying. Of course her improvement was not all the Moon Elf's work (it was probably mostly Casavir's) but Isaviel knew that her own unorthodox fighting style helped the woman to learn some useful new tricks. She was a quick learner and a diligent student.

All of the members of Isaviel's group trained together, out in the woods where there was some space, apart from Qara and of course Sand. Grobnar could still best Isaviel with a bow, though he would never be as good as Bishop. The ranger had begun to help her with that though, and her shortbow was seeing far more use than it once had. Neeshka was a useful sparring partner, but a brief attempt at the hideout against Mae'rillar had taught her the folly of facing a Drow on even terms. It had only made her resolve stronger. If she faced him again, she would best him. She was determined.

Thus it was that Isaviel began to practice ever more with Casavir, borrowing Bishop's longsword and fighting, falling and fighting again until her strength was far greater, along with her speed. Shandra had been right, the paladin was patient. He understood her frustration and never argued against it, instead urging her back to her feet. She did not doubt that in a fair fight she was a match for most of her friends, but she was forcing herself to train with more difficult odds. The paladin seemed to appreciate this determination, and it looked to her like his glances had become more affectionate as well as compassionate. Though they could not agree on morality, they had this agreed time in which to call a truce, and they could respect each other's skill.

Khelgar paid regular visits to the Temple of Tyr, and that unsettled her. He had not spoken much of his wish to become a monk since first they met, perhaps because of her dislike of the subject and all it entailed for her, but he had begun to train elsewhere. Tellingly his armour and weapons saw less use, and his frame was even more muscular and far less rotund than it had been in the weeks when first they travelled together.

Amidst it all autumn was creeping by, growing colder seemingly by the day, and the nights were drawing in. Neverwinter would not freeze over, thanks to its heated waters coming from the Crags, but the trees of the Neverwinter Wood were beginning to drop their leaves, the grass crusted with frost in the mornings. The air was cold, clouding in front of their faces with every outbreath. Gloves and cloaks were a necessity to keep warm, and soon this would not be enough. The gear they had used to travel the icy mountains near Triboar would become their daily attire. If ever there was a time for the shadows – and their King – to swallow the lands, it was then, when winter tried to claim the sun from them.

Isaviel's dreams were still plagued often by the memories of fire and death, but as Sand had promised her they were lessening as time passed, especially in this lull. Sometimes they still woke her, and it was on one such night, more than a month since the combat with Lorne, that the city went mad.

The Moon Elf had been unable to return to sleep and sat by the fire in her room at several hours past midnight, wrapped in furs, petting a drowsy Karnwyr while Bishop remained sprawled asleep in her bed. It was at this time that Sir Nevalle and Duncan came rushing into her room, wild-eyed. The knight spared a moment to cast a derisive glance at the angrily awakening ranger before turning to Isaviel.

"I would rather not interrupt at this hour, squire," he admitted rather pointedly, "But…Aldanon's house has been attacked and Marshal Cormick held prisoner there, gravely wounded. To make matters worse, during the night another noble has been murdered, and Lord Nasher demands your presence as soon as you can spare it."


	20. Blackmailing the Wicked

The street outside Aldanon's house was eerily deserted and terribly cold as Isaviel and a number of her companions rushed towards the large, ornate mansion. Two guards stood on the cobbles at the entrance to the old scholar's garden in a stand-off with a pair of thugs who were only half-visible in the darkness of the blasted doorway of the building. Their shouted words echoed crisply through the cold air, and several people had begun to peer out of their windows from within the surrounding houses.

Isaviel paused, seeing the fallen form of Cormick, face down on the garden path between the two groups, and whispered instructions into Bishop's ear. With a derisive grunt he nodded curtly and headed off down a side alley, motioning sharply for Grobnar to follow – something which the Gnome dared not refuse, though he did so with a short squeak of fear. Qara watched them curiously, unaware of her undignified dishevelled state, her hair sticking up at odd angles from an impromptu awakening so early in the morning. Elanee also watched the path of the ranger and his unlikely companion with a long, distrustful look, but Casavir, Khelgar and Shandra did not hesitate to follow Isaviel as she continued her approach, comprehending the urgency of the situation.

The two men of the Watch who had initially been sent to deal with the problem, both bleary-eyed and hastily armoured with probably half of the buckles holding their armour together left undone, turned with hopeful looks as Isaviel and her friends joined them. The shouted conversation paused for the time, the thugs who had purportedly broken into the mansion watching, invisible now, and the whole street rang with silence while all parties gathered their wits.

"Lieutenant…squire…I am so glad to see you here," the ranking man, a sergeant by his badge, gasped, wiping at his lined brow, an ageing man with bushy grey brows and untended stubble from his rude awakening.

"You would be," the Moon Elf noted dryly, "You have clearly failed to achieve what little has been expected of you," she gestured to the still form of Cormick, her golden eyes hard – there was no time to care about the offended expressions of the men beside her, "_Is he still alive?"_

"I am, Isaviel, though I might not have been if those imbeciles knew how to work that wand," the marshal groaned, his words faint rasps as he raised his head a little.

Hearing his words the two men at the destroyed doorway leaned into view, their faces obscured by plain cloth masks, their eyes wild with panic from what the Moon Elf could see. The one on the right of the doorway held a pale white wand in his hand, the globe at its end still sparking with tiny lightenings.

"Don't come any closer!" the man with the wand insisted, trying and failing to hide the shake in his high tone, "Any steps onto the path and we'll kill your marshal!"

Isaviel heard Khelgar grunt at those words, imagining him settling into a defensive stance behind her, fists up and ready for a fight, as if that might help in this delicate situation. Cormick had fallen forward whilst facing the house, and she could not get a look at his face even when he managed to raise his head to try to speak. She could see the blood on the ground though, and suspected he was badly wounded indeed – he was certainly not one to cease fighting easily.

"My la… Isaviel," Casavir murmured now, stepping up to the Moon Elf's side and putting a hand on her shoulder, his deep voice rumbling through the contact, "I fear he is gravely wounded."

The Moon Elf sent him a derisive glance…or would have if he had not caught her gaze. She saw his genuine concern there – for Cormick, but also for her. He assumed that she cared about the fallen man, and she felt a slight stab of guilt that she would try to save him now more for Sand and Duncan than anything else.

"Just rush 'em, Lieutenant," Cormick grunted, moving as if to try to push himself up and succeeding in rolling onto his back – the gash on his stomach was bleeding profusely and the leather tunic he wore was scorched away over the right side of his chest, "They're out of charges."

"They're not," Qara whispered into Isaviel's ear, "But they don't know how to use that thing. I could set them on fire quicker than they could aim…"

"Gods!" Elanee gasped, rather pointedly leaning between Isaviel and Casavir, "I have to be able to reach him to heal him as soon as possible."

"Better not listen to him, hounds," the other ruffian denied, "Us imbeciles have plenty charges left, so keep yer stinkin' distance!"

"What exactly is going on here, sergeant?" Isaviel hissed through gritted teeth, not taking her eyes off the pair twitching at the door.

"A botched robbery as far as we can make of it," the ageing Watch member explained, "The thieves were inside the house when Cormick knocked – he must have noticed that the old wards were down. Never stood a chance. They shot him with that wand of theirs and left him right there. Now they say they'll kill him if we come closer."

One quick look at Cormick lying there, barely conscious, burned and bleeding, his face ashen and his breathing shallow, Isaviel knew he could not stand another attack of any sort. Duncan would be distraught if he died, and Sand would know she had not tried hard enough if that happened. She preferred to believe Qara's information about the wand – the sorcerer would not have offered such helpful information if it weren't true (and in contravention to what Cormick had claimed).

Unknown to the ruffians, Isaviel had a shuriken concealed up each sleeve as she stepped forward onto the threshold of the open gate leading into Aldanon's garden. She raised her arms in a peaceable gesture, and though the man with the wand aimed his weapon at Cormick, his hand shaking tellingly, he hesitated.

"Stand down now, and things will go better for you," Isaviel promised, "He can't do you any more harm…"

"But you can! As soon as ye get yer marshal back, ye'll turn on us and kill us."

"If you _do not_ allow us to reach him we may be forced to kill you," Isaviel corrected, "Put that wand down, and we'll talk terms."

A moment of silence passed while the two men at the door leaned back out of view, undoubtedly arguing over the best course of action. They seemed remarkably determined to hold the door, as well as uncommonly afraid and disorganised. That suggested there were others inside, and Isaviel wondered what had become of Aldanon and his numerous servants.

"What kind o' terms?" the man with the wand asked eventually as he and his companion appeared once more, this time daring to step out of the door. Dressed in leathers, they were well-armed but poorly trained, from the way they did not keep their hands close to their identical sheathed longswords.

"Money? A pardon? A day's head-start to run from 'the law that hounds you'?" Isaviel shrugged, hiding her smirk when the two men of the Watch behind her muttered indignantly at her audacious words. _Of course_ she couldn't promise that kind of thing. She didn't need to be telling the truth – they just had to believe that she was.

"We want all o' them things," the man warned with as much of a growl as he could muster, twitching the wand, and she was ready for his next words when they came, "But we've been offered better."

Everything happened all at once. Isaviel brought one hand up to signal to Bishop and Grobnar, hoping they had reached their vantage points by then, and her other whipped around, sending a shuriken spinning towards the man with the wand as he raised that fizzling weapon to aim it at Cormick. The bladed projectile caught the wand with its serrated edge just as Casavir threw himself past the Moon Elf, covering Cormick with his shield, sending the electrical blast far off target, roaring into one of the lichen-patterned statues by the door. A stone head cracked and wobbled from the impact, while arrows came swooping in from behind; one, two…three, four. In a moment one man was shrieking, falling to the floor with an arrow in his right thigh, another quivering over his shoulder deep in the remains of the doorframe. The second man, the one who had now been forced to drop the wand, his hand visibly raw and blistered from its misuse, turned to flee. Two more arrows came for him, one pinning his injured hand, still upraised, to the doorframe by its sleeve, the other thrumming just over his head.

"A-alright, alright!" he cried, as if he had some kind of choice, while Elanee rushed over to tend to Cormick, her hands already glowing with pale healing light, "J-just don't kill me!"

Isaviel gestured impatiently to the sergeant and his companion who stood gawping behind her as Bishop dropped down from some hidden balcony at the side of the mansion opposite, whistling for Grobnar as if he were Karnwyr. Still, it took a moment before the two Watch men responded, moving over to the pinned men and attempting to extract them from the garden.

"Someone needs to make sure those two don't let them get away," Shandra pointed out dryly and Isaviel nodded her agreement.

"You're right. Grobnar! Give them a hand bringing those two fools to the Watch for questioning."

The Gnome looked both honoured and taken aback by her request, and though Bishop snorted at the words, perceiving the suggestion as a slight to the two Watch men, Isaviel suspected Grobnar of being easily competent enough. His bowshot had been the one to pin the man's arm…without harming him, an appropriate outlook for someone who needed to escort the men safely. The same could not be said for Bishop's aim; the first ruffian was now incapable of walking from the scene.

"Elanee, go to the Temple of Lathander, get some help for Cormick and the wounded man there. We need to get them out of the way – quickly, in case anyone more comes out of that door."

"At once," the druid agreed, standing and almost instantly morphing into an owl, flapping strong, silent wings a few times before swooping out of sight.

"We need to check inside the house. Aldanon may yet be inside," Casavir stated, standing and hefting his hammer.

Though the words were obvious, Isaviel could not disagree.

* * *

Aldanon's house had been so cluttered and disorganised to start with that it was hard to determine the extent of the break in at first. Passing beyond the splintered remains of the front door and through the main hallway, it was evident after a short time of picking through scrolls that a large area of his library had been hurriedly raided. A field of torn papers, spilled inkpots and broken quills all attested to this. There was no sign of any servants – a struggle had taken place in the kitchen, located across a narrow hallway beyond the library, where a still-bubbling broth had been overturned from its cauldron over the fire. The meat cleaver on the counter was covered in blood, but there was no sign of any meat for it to have cloven, and the window in that room was thoroughly shattered, the splintered frames strewn across the floor. It looked like someone else had come in that way.

It was only once they had moved back out of the kitchen, heading down the plain, wood-panelled servants' corridor that they turned a corner and Isaviel came up short with a startled gasp. Casavir almost bowled right into her, and Khelgar grunted in surprise at what he saw as well. Qara summoned flames into her palms reflexively and stood there looking resolute but anxious, her reddish hair a wild mess, the skirts of her dress rippled by magical winds the others could not feel.

"An interesting band of thieves," Bishop suggested sardonically.

On the ground before them lay three monstrous forms, one evidently a Succubus from its feminine form, wings torn and singed, scraps of clothing darkened with blood and gore. The two monsters flanking her were less familiar – humanoid in form, their arms and legs were impossibly long with knife-like claws on their hands, their leathery skin blackened from a magical blast. One had a deep gash in its side, presumably from the meat-cleaver in the kitchen, and both had enormous bared teeth that took up half the space of their emaciated heads.

"Demons," Casavir growled, as if anyone doubted it.

Isaviel continued to stare at the fallen monsters which had perished in the blast of Aldanon's wards as Bishop stalked closer, kicking at the corpse of the succubus, the talons of her tattered wings scraping against the floorboards. Slick black blood had seeped into the wood from all three, implying to Isaviel that there had been a simple trap there as well as spells – the sight was too grisly to observe for too long. Beyond this point the hallway dropped down in a steep flight of stairs towards a set of doors, presumably leading to Aldanon's vault or something with equally valuable implications.

"The wards are down. We shouldn't have any trouble getting past," Qara shrugged, the fires still dancing in her palms, "Really, I'm right," she insisted when Isaviel sent her a long, searching look.

"Fine," the Moon Elf sighed, and stepped quickly over the fallen demons, heading straight down the stairs and trying the handle of the double doors, "It's locked."

"So no one got past those doors…but someone wanted to," Bishop surmised.

"Who'd want to work wi' demons?" Khelgar mused doubtfully as he and Casavir automatically moved over to the doors.

"Not those fools at the door," Isaviel assured him, unsheathing her kukris as she stepped aside, pressing her back to the wall in readiness.

It did not take much effort from either Casavir or Khelgar before they shouldered through the mechanism…only for a crossbow bolt to come flying out from the darkness beyond. Qara brought up her hands reflexively, with no time to dodge out of the way, and the wooden projectile burned to cinders immediately in the flames pouring from her palms. Bishop made a disappointed sound as he watched her go unscathed, immediately following this by shooting an arrow blind into the void opened by the doors. A gurgle followed, and Isaviel could see beyond with her night vision that he had rather gruesomely caught the crossbow-wielding man through the throat with his arrow.

Casavir stepped forward, holding his palely glowing hammer high to light his path for him. Isaviel ignored this, creeping ahead with the shadows as her aids, past the dying man who wore the same leathers as those men who had guarded the door. Turning the corner she saw a large, empty room of feebly torch-lit stone, and there were the servants, huddled in a whimpering group at one corner. A tall man, another of the thugs, waved a longsword in one hand and a torch in the other, sweat beading his brow as he turned to face the group storming his hideout. But his two companions, those who had been charged with intimidating the servants into silence, kept their nerve for far less long, dropping their weapons and raising their hands with girlish shrieks. A moment later and their tall, burly leader did the same. There was no sign of Aldanon.

"We surrender. J-just don't send the d-demons after us again, please…w-we'll tell you everything you want to know!"

"I am most glad to hear it," Isaviel smirked sarcastically, "Bishop, Casavir, Khelgar, if you would be so kind as to escort these…gentlemen from the premises."

Casavir and Khelgar took a moment to round up the three men still alive in the room, Bishop with his bow drawn back tight in threat. The arrow notched there would merrily find any of their hearts, Isaviel knew. And that included the paladin and the Dwarf. As the group was retreating back up the stairs, hopefully to meet with a large Watch contingent, Isaviel turned to the servants, who were blinking at her uncomprehendingly. They did not seem to know if she was friend of foe.

"You…you are Isaviel Farlong," a young, immaculately dressed man stated at last, stepping forward from the group though they tried to pull him back, "I remember you…you came in talking about the shards. Master Aldanon gave you his."

"I am. And yes indeed, I still have it," Isaviel agreed, patting one of the pouches on her belt, "Where is your 'master'?"

"Kidnapped…he was looking for you when…the thieves came," the man explained, glancing with nervous eyes towards the dead man at the door, "They had a wizard with them at first, and he took Aldanon away in a flash of light. Then the demons came and the thieves barricaded themselves here with us."

"Do you have any idea why this happened?" Isaviel asked, but she suspected she already knew the answer, "Or who these people might have been?"

"I…believe I do, at least…he wanted to speak to you about…something about the shards. As we'd been looking for you when the thieves came, we believed them when they said they had a message from you."

"They knew my name?"

"Yes. But they wore no insignia…I do not know who they might have been."

"Alright then," Isaviel sighed, "Why don't we get out of this cave before they all go mad," she gestured towards the huddled servants in the corner, "And you can tell us what Aldanon wanted?"

* * *

"We had been researching the silver shards at the Archive," the young servant explained once they had been escorted to the City Watch headquarters in the centre of the Merchant District.

He had grown pale as he recounted the events of the break-in, slumping in his chair in Brelaina's office. The captain herself was perched on the edge of her desk, watching him intently. The room looked emptier without her ever-present marshal, but Elanee informed them Cormick had been instated safely in the Temple of Lathander amongst its famed healers. The other servants – as well as the ruffians they had captured – were all being questioned elsewhere.

"What did you find that was so important? Why would a group of 'thieves', accompanied by a far more competent wizard, kidnap Aldanon?" Isaviel demanded from where she leaned against the wall, appearing deceptively relaxed.

Bishop was by her side, spinning his bow around its tip on the floor, Casavir standing by the opposite wall. She had the uncomfortable feeling that when she was not looking, the men were eyeballing each other with significantly threatening glares. Khelgar shifted from foot to foot nearer the servant's chair, evidently anxious to be off. They had been told earlier that Nasher had need of them, and that undoubtedly meant more worrying news.

"Why would a _group of demons_ follow in their wake?" Qara threw in from her place by the door, arms folded and foot tapping, as impatient as the Dwarf.

"I am not certain," the servant shrugged with wide-eyed honesty, looking about the room at the various members of Isaviel's group who had assembled, his eyes lingering on Elanee, who stood looking thoughtful and fragile by the window, Shandra frowning worriedly by her side, "We recently found a reference to a shard held in Neverwinter shortly after the war with the King of Shadows. It was held by a fraternity of lords, wealthy men who dabbled in matters arcane. According to the record there were four of these lords; Dalren, Brennick, Hawkes and Tavorick."

"Well, well, those names sound awfully familiar," Bishop noted, coldly amused, looking around at Isaviel and making sure her eyes met his before continuing, "Those are the men who've been turning up dead."

"Yes," the servant agreed, "All but Tavorick. We reasoned that the lords have been passing the shard from one to the other, just ahead of the demons. If our guess is correct, then Lord Tavorick has the shard and he is in considerable danger," his words were coming out in a frantic stream now and he was gripping the arms of his chair tightly, "Aldanon tried to send word to him, but the man is stubborn. He urged me to go away and said that I shouldn't return until I was 'younger and female'."

"We should tell Lord Nasher now – in case more of those men – or demons – return," Shandra suggested, and Isaviel nodded her agreement.

"Shandra, Casavir…come with me," she said, already turning to leave, ignoring Bishop's disgusted sound; _you cannot let the others cloud your perception so much,_ "The rest of you stay here and see what more you can uncover from our…guests and prisoners."

* * *

Sir Nevalle met them in the main atrium of Castle Never, the same room where Isaviel had waited with Casavir and Lord Corett those weeks ago. The leader of the Neverwinter Nine, dressed as always in his chainmail and blue and white regalia, ushered them through a side door and down a plain white-washed corridor at a brisk pace, two heavily armed guards bringing up the rear.

"Any news of Lord Aldanon?" Nevalle inquired as they reached the end of the corridor, beginning to open a simple wooden doorway by a tall arched window with a view of the castle gardens and the gloomy morning, "Is he unharmed?"

"Unfortunately we have learned little so far," Casavir admitted before Isaviel could speak, "Except that…he has been kidnapped."

Sir Nevalle paused at that and looked around at the trio with a grave expression. Something about the set of his mouth and the seriousness in his eyes made Isaviel realise that he had not known…but that he had suspected.

"The information one of his servants gave us would suggest that Lord Tavorick will become the next murdered noble – and that it may well happen tonight, while the city's focus is on the commotion at Aldanon's house," Isaviel informed him as he looked away, pulling open the door and stepping through.

"This is ill news, though not wholly unsurprising," Sir Nevalle agreed as Isaviel and her companions followed him over the threshold, the guards closing the door behind them.

"Tell us all that you have learned, squire."

Nasher's deep voice rang through the small, brightly lit chamber, and Isaviel looked past Nevalle to see the Lord of Neverwinter seated at a table eating what could only have been his breakfast. He was dressed in a robe of blue and silver, his head appearing exceptionally bald without his customary crown. Yet it would have been folly to consider him vulnerable at that moment – the way he wielded the butter knife in his hand could attest to that. Nevalle relinquished command of the situation to his lord, moving over to the heartily crackling fireplace, eyes glinting in the greyish light flooding through the large, many-paned window to Isaviel's left.

Isaviel did as Lord Nasher bade her, explaining all that had occurred and everything they had learned, shifting her muddy Mere boots uncomfortably over the expensive Damaran rug upon which she had been left. The room was opulent even in its simplicity, the breakfast of Lord Nasher probably more expensive than Sal's entire kitchen. The curtains were distractingly embroidered with silver thread that glinted eye-catchingly in the morning light, and there was a man in the garden outside struggling to prune a particularly awkwardly shaped hedge. She found her eyes wandering that way as she spoke, rather than having to watch Lord Nasher staring so intently at her as she spoke, just as Casavir and Nevalle had a habit of doing. They took after their god in that sense; they were so judgemental. She was very aware of how out of place she felt, with Nevalle so blandly radiant in his knight's attire, Casavir glowing righteously beside her; Shandra took well to this serious, heavily-armoured atmosphere as well.

"Not news to my ears, sadly," Nasher stated, putting down his knife and fork with the air of a man sheathing a greatsword, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with an icy white napkin before sitting back in his polished chair, broad sleeves rustling softly as he settled his hands upon the armrests, "But I am glad you have come and it sounds to me as though you did all you could; that is what I wish of you."

"Why did you require us to come then?" Isaviel demanded.

She felt so out of place there standing in her plain dark tunic and leggings, her worn cloak limp about her shoulders, and her ancient boots leaving muddy prints in the beautiful ivory-coloured carpet.

"_My lord_," Nevalle corrected her sharply, but Nasher waved it aside with an impatient huff.

"You are right to tell me of your fears for Lord Tavorick's safety," the lord of Neverwinter nodded solemnly, "Cyran is a good friend of mine and I will not allow him to suffer the same fate as the others. I want you at his estate at once; I am sending Ballard with a contingent as well, he is the captain of the Watch here in the Blacklake and I trust him implicitly. You are to act as his second in command and take as many members of your…rag-tag group as you can spare. Those who do not already work for the Watch will be paid duly for their aid, if that is what it takes to persuade them to lend me their services. Whatever this shard you speak of means, it must not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands – and neither demons nor thieves are the _right_ hands, I think we might both agree on that."

Isaviel smiled grudgingly at his words, but only briefly, crossing her arms in front of herself and stared back at him with steely eyes. Shandra laid a hand on her arm as if sensing her thoughts, looking from the Moon Elf to Nasher with incredulously disapproving eyes.

"And why am I suddenly expected to carry out this…duty for you?" Isaviel hissed, "I am but a humble lieutenant at the Merchant Quarter…under sufferance at that."

"Your honesty astounds me," Lord Nasher noted dryly, his lip curling at her tone as he gestured for the servant standing by the door to remove the remains of his food, "I understand that Cormick likes to keep an eye on you – you may be an impressive fighter, and I do not doubt you are innocent of those claims Torio laid against you, but I am no fool. I understand what company you keep, though Sand tries hard to protect you."

Shandra's grip on her arm tightened when her instincts sent her hands to the empty sheaths for her kukris. Nasher might be handy with a knife and fork…and he might be handy with that greatsword hanging by the door, but he certainly _was _no fool. His guards had taken their weapons from them at the atrium and crossed their halberds across the door now when Isaviel bristled.

"Your courage is impressive, though I think you are wiser than to strike out at me for such placid words, Isaviel Farlong," Nasher commented smoothly, his voice dripping with derision before he nodded towards Casavir, so still and dutiful by her side, "Your paladin trusts you implicitly though your hackles rise. I would have you leashed and tamed rather than rotting in a cell, for I know what it is that you carry, and I know of the threat growing in your homeland's marshes perhaps better than you. If you do not act as I say, I will _make_ you do it, do not doubt me."

"My lord, surely…" Casavir began but Nasher gestured for silence.

"My aids tell me of your unlawful deeds, and I have seen your…foul…temper for myself at your trial. You are dangerous to the wellbeing of my city, and that I will not allow, but I cannot place charges against you when I cannot trace this Thieves' Guild for which I suspect you work."

That sent relief flooding through Isaviel – he could not stop her then…

"Against my better judgement, I see something of worth in you," Nasher admitted disdainfully, "Your expertise and past successes with these shards may well prove useful. And if none of that interests you, there is a knighthood and lands in this for you."

"A 'leash' for me, don't you mean?" Isaviel snarled, "And how do you intend to force this upon me?"

"Oh, I need not," Nasher denied, a self-satisfied smile upon his face now, "For it is your duty…and when the time comes, when this King of Shadows is upon us, you will need Neverwinter with you."

Casavir placed a heavy hand on her shoulder at those words, and when she turned to look at him, his eyes glowed like blue suns. Isaviel just felt a cold dread creeping up her spine. _I fear he is right. When last the King of Shadows came, they needed an army to fend him off. Why would he return, if he is not stronger now?_

"My lady, he speaks truly," the paladin told her softly, his conviction absolute.

"You know much of this King of Shadows, and you seem unsurprised regarding these shards," Isaviel noted, and Nasher shrugged unconcernedly.

"Of course, I have a city to protect, and all its lands, not just my own life, squire. I will do anything for my people. If that means I have to deal with the likes of you, then I will. If that does not persuade you, think on the power, the lands, the titles you will win from aiding me. A pretty leash – and a long one – for a rabid dog, if you ask me."

There it was again, the expectation of duty, the requirement for honour, the endowment of a title to bind her to the cause of the city. But she had to do this…for her own wellbeing, regardless of Nasher's derisive acknowledgement of that mind-set. Whoever wanted the shard from Tavorick would come for her next – and she suspected this as Black Garius's work. She might as well face him sooner rather than later.


	21. All the Hells Break Loose

The hallway of Lord Tavorick's estate was enormous, even more than his extensive, elaborate garden, which had been impressive even with the flowers all gone, leant a fiery elegance by the leaves' of the trees, turning to shades of ochre and red gold as autumn came. The two guards at the portico ahead were dour and all but silent, grunting when Isaviel and her companions arrived, gesturing them in through the massive front doors. Beyond lay a hallway of polished marble, gilded marble, carved marble, embroidered draperies and draped tapestries, all of it shining brightly with opulence. A pair of red-carpeted stairways reflected each other's curve at the far end of the room, arcing together into a balcony with a balustrade of polished Duskwood. All of the doors in the room had been barricaded with plentiful benches and heavy bookcases, except for the door beyond the balcony.

A number of armoured men, wearing badges of the Watch, had been stationed at points around the room, a pair at attention by the single unblocked door. Casavir and Khelgar immediately began to discuss the orders Captain Ballard had given with the guards closest to them, and Neeshka was making a circuit of the room, rather unsubtly sizing up the wealth on view. Elanee had gone to scout out the vast gardens, and Grobnar lingered at the door, gawping at the opulence.

Under the shadow of the balcony stood an aged man in a belted, quilted black robe adorned with silver leaves, a beautiful young woman holding his arm. A tall, bearded man was engaged in heated discussion with him – he wore a badge of the City Watch with the red cloak of a captain, holding his plumed helmet under his arm. They looked round only fleetingly to acknowledge the large group filing inside, and Isaviel approached with curious incredulity as she caught the gist of the conversation, a number of her friends following.

"I am sorry milord," Captain Ballard was saying as Isaviel reached the trio, a rather bemused expression on his face, "But the girl must leave."

"Oh come now!" Lord Tavorick was protesting, clutching at the young woman's hand which held his arm, "Look at her! A pretty girl like that would keep any man alive and well, even a spotty old wart like me. That is what Nasher wants, isn't it? To keep me from dropping dead?"

"Yes, milord, but it cannot be helped. Lord Nasher is concerned with milord's wellbeing regarding the recent deaths of milord's associates."

"Ha! If Nasher really cared about 'millord's well-being' he'd buy me a potion of youth!" Tavorick scoffed; Ballard momentarily floundered.

With his thinning white hair and deeply wrinkled paper-like skin, spotted with age, Tavorick could not have been less than eighty, and his hands shook a little as he gesticulated wildly. His humorous fervour was telling as well, as was his upright posture and alert green eyes; though he was old, he was not as decrepit as he was implying.

"Milord, I…"

"…failing that, he could at least buy me a harem. Eighty-four girls, one for each year of my life," Tavorick suggested with a wink.

"Lecherous bastard," Bishop snorted under his breath, and Isaviel elbowed him.

"Sounds like a kindred spirit for you, really," she suggested with an innocent smile.

"Only if they'd fight me like you do," he growled back, eliciting a gagging sound from Qara who walked on the Moon Elf's other side.

"Alright, alright, I've had my fun," Tavorick laughed at Ballard's scandalised expression, stepping away from the young woman, who smiled at him sweetly when he looked to her, "Melia, my dear, I insist that you come back and play for me again. The night after next, perhaps?"

"My lord is very sweet. I would be honoured," she told him, her voice gentle and musical, smiling to Tavorick again, and then Ballard as well with that flawless look, her lustrous dark ringlets bouncing about her face as she moved.

"Alright then, I've done as you wished," Tavorick sighed to Ballard, sending Melia a wink and a wave as she moved away from them, her long emerald dress sweeping the polished floor as she moved, paying no heed to Isaviel and her group on her way out.

"Thank you, milord…" Ballard began to say, but Tavorick had finally turned his attention towards Isaviel, taking a few steps towards her, leaning a little on his gold-topped cane – though without any visible limp.

"Ah, has Nasher sent more people to guard my old bones?" he asked, looking the Moon Elf up and down and smiling at Qara and Shandra as well, "At least quite a few of you are lovely enough to give me something to look upon throughout the night. I don't suppose any of you play the harp like Melia?"

"I'm afraid not, Lord Tavorick, but we're here to help," Shandra assured him, and he waved the words away.

"Oh, of course you are. Nasher thinks he can keep me from dropping dead by sending an army? Ha!"

"Hardly," Isaviel sneered, "But he does seem to think you're worth saving from that which you carry."

"Ah, that," he glanced shiftily towards Ballard, who rolled his eyes at the over-exaggerated expression, "Well, Nasher ought to send more women to guard me – you're a fair young thing, my lady, even with that glare and all those blades."

Bishop gave a short laugh at that and stalked away, and Isaviel could feel how tense Qara was beside her at the old man's words. It all seemed a little over-acted to the Moon Elf – there was something going on here that she had not been told of, and it made her uneasy.

"Hells," Tavorick was continuing unchecked, "Sack all the men and give me an army of pretty ladies. The Watch would be a great deal more popular then, I assure you. Ladies like Melia, that girl from the Mask. Comes and visits me from time to time – reminds me what it's like to have a lady in the house. Plays the harp like a songbird. I can't rightly hear it, mind you, but she has beautiful hands. My fourth wife had hands like those. You know where it got her? Scorched to a crisp; thought she'd have a go at wizardry."

"He's giving me ideas," Qara murmured in Isaviel's ear and the Moon Elf had to stifle a laugh.

"Milord, we need to get you upstairs," Ballard managed to put some urgency in his voice, suddenly far less timid than before.

"Ah yes, shoo the old dotard away. He smells like boiled cabbage anyway – and don't bother denying it, I know what I smell like," Tavorick grumbled, already turning and heading up the stairs, "I'll be up in my chambers trying not to die of natural causes if anyone thinks to check on me. I think I'll go to bed and dream of pretty girls like you," he paused on the stairs and winked at Isaviel – who had the distinct impression that he was _trying _to annoy her and therefore just rolled her eyes and turned away.

Shandra hurried to help Tavorick up the stairs but he turned back, calling after Isaviel.

"Pretty Elvish lady, come to think of it there's something I should show you before things threaten to get serious."

When she looked towards him, he gestured for her to follow and after a moment she did so, Shandra by her side. His steps were quick and measured for one who professed to need a cane to walk and he led them through the balcony doors and past the mandatory paintings of ancestors passed. Shortly they reached his lavish chambers and he ushered them inside before swiftly closing the door behind them, moving through the velvet-cushioned chairs and couches, arranged around an ornate fire, and across a fur rug towards the mantelpiece.

"I am afraid I will not be giving the shard to you," he admitted, unexpectedly reaching up over the fire and pulling free the undoubtedly heavy greatsword mounted there with a grunt of effort, allowing its blade to clang against the floorboards, splintering the top layer of the floor a little, "But we might as well split the load between us. You see, no one ever thinks about the hilt; it is not technically a shard of the sword after all."

The old man grinned momentarily, using his long sleeve to protect against the sharp metal edge as he took the blade in one hand and the grip in the other, beginning to pull. With a slight click, the hilt came free and he let the large blade fall to the ground, stepping towards Isaviel and Shandra, holding the hilt out to the Moon Elf.

"This was recovered by my sadly lost friend Dalren at the Battle of West Harbour. Look after it for me why don't you, my dear?"

She took the heavy component of the sword from his grasp with a little trepidation and awe – it was evidently for a two-handed weapon, the leather around its grip worn away to the metal beneath in some places. Its crossbar looked to be made of a metal resembling bronze, arcing unevenly to form a hand-guard, three red jewels following its curve with another, larger gem set at its joining with the grip. As soon as she touched it, the spherical crystal pommel began to glow with soft silver light - the scar over her heart began to ache, as well, and she felt a surge of power spread through her arms.

"Ah. It seems to like you," Tavorick noted with a knowing smile, raising his eyebrows expectantly as if she were supposed to understand some joke.

"That sword…it must have been enormous," Shandra noted in surprise, "There's room for two hands and more on that grip."

"Indeed. Makes me wonder why anyone wants it at all," Tavorick shrugged, looking wholly disinterested now as Isaviel continued to turn the hilt around in her hands, "I think I will try to get some sleep," he sent them a smile as they moved to leave, "Don't worry too much about me."

* * *

As night fell Ballard had locked all of the doors in the house except for those leading to Tavorick's room, which were being guarded by Casavir and Khelgar. Elanee had looked particularly unhappy when she stepped inside and approached Isaviel as she sat on the top step of the stairs, Bishop pacing the balcony behind her.

"Isaviel, I must speak with you," the druid stated, sitting beside her, eyes wide with sorrow and fear, "The trees…the plants…even the water. There is something wrong. Not just here, but everywhere…"

"Don't you just mean winter's killing off all your beloved 'nature', druid?" Bishop paused a moment to sneer at her, and she sent him an unhappy glare for that.

"No, please, you must listen to me."

"I am listening," Isaviel sighed, hooking the silver sword's hilt under her belt and leaning her elbows back against the step behind her, "Though I won't be soon."

"I-I'm sorry, I know you don't trust me much…," Elanee paused, shaking her head, then began again, "There is a shadow on the land. It was strongest in the Mere, and I have heard no more word from my elders since I went to contact them at Skymirror many weeks ago. Naevan warned me then, as I told you, that the bad harvest in the Mere and the tainted waters were a sign of the return of the King of Shadows. When we saw no more proof of this; when it did not spread…I dared to hope he was wrong, but now I sense it strongly. Shadows are thick and heavy with the taint of evil…"

"What in all the Hells is that?" Ballard exclaimed loudly as several of his men started and moved away from the doors at which they had been stationed.

Standing quickly, Isaviel saw what had made them jump so – dark, low hanging mist had begun to creep beneath all the doors, pouring most distinctly through the front entrance, and in moments it fouls stench had filled the hall. Bishop cursed behind her when all the torches illuminating the room went out with a communal hiss in their sconces. Several long seconds of darkness passed in which Isaviel could make out the bright red glow of Neeshka's eyes clearly as the Tiefling stalked silently across the room. Eventually Qara summoned flame into her hands with a momentary roar of power, illuminating much of the room from her position just below the balcony.

"Demons. It's demons…and devils," Neeshka told them in a loud whisper from her place somewhere in the outer reaches of darkness. What were they doing working together?

"This is ridiculous," Bishop hissed in Isaviel's ear; she could feel his chest against her back, his breath on her hair as he spoke those angry words, "We should have just killed the old fool, taken the shard, and run." He gave her a little shove as he stepped away again.

"Oh, great, and then we'd have the whole Lords' Alliance after us," the Moon Elf shot back, keeping her eyes on the scene ahead.

There was no more time for words, because a great scraping began against the front doors, which rattled and groaned against their hinges. A rush of power tore through the room, shaking everyone within, as blue flame erupted from all of the torches, bathing the room in ghostly light. Grobnar's eyes looked positively black in that illumination as he blinked nervously about himself at the top of the other flight of stairs, shortbow clutched in both small hands. Bishop had moved to the centre of the balcony, an arrow drawn back tightly in his glowing bow, steady, apparently fearless – but raging. Elanee had reached the main floor, morphing quickly into a bear's form and prowling across the hallway as the guards, along with Shandra, formed up around Captain Ballard, who had positioned himself just in front of Qara. The sorceress had flames leaping around both hands, a wildly hopeful expression on her face. _Of all of us, she alone loves this…but only while she's safe behind all those guards._

Isaviel pulled free her own bow, nocking an arrow just in time as the doors shattered, and it seemed for a moment as though all the Abyss and Hells poured forth together. A pair of great black dogs leapt through first, perhaps three times the size that they should have been with short fur so dark it sucked in the blue light to leave a void of blackness in their wake. Snarling, they showed vicious teeth larger than daggers, and their eyes glowed deep crimson. The first tackled Elanee's bear-form; the two great beasts collided with an impressive thud, rolling across the floor rending, roaring, biting. The second Hellhound was momentarily engulfed in a huge blast of flame which arced over the Watch men from Qara.

In the hounds' wake came a pair of Succubi, one blonde, the other with hair the colour of blood, clad in spotless white strips of cloth, flapping huge leathery wings to take them and their horribly sharp talons descending upon Ballard and his men. With them came some five more winged creatures, these much smaller, far less human in appearance, perhaps the size of squirrels but more resembling bats, with long, spiked tails, small horns and crazed eyes; these were Imps. Tiny swords and spears were in their hands, blades visibly dripping poison.

Having learned their lesson when first they met the Succubi at Mephasm's prison, Isaviel and Bishop knew to aim for the demons' wings, and soon several had been forced to land, wings torn and bloodied, hissing and snarling as they grappled with Ballard and his men. Shandra had managed to cut one of the Imps from the air, and it lay dead at her feet, but its companion had seen what she was capable of and was repeatedly swooping down upon her head from behind, always one step ahead of her when she tried to turn to meet its attacks. A carefully placed arrow from Isaviel soon ended that problem, and Shandra paused a moment to salute her for it.

Qara had managed to detain the second Hellhound with her spells, and with the help of Grobnar's arrows Elanee had the first of the pair pinned to the ground by its throat, still snarling and thrashing even at the last. Most of the Imps had been felled as well, Bishop was just lining up an arrow with the last one, now listing badly before crashing against the balustrade at his (somewhat lacking) mercy. The Succubi had been surrounded by Ballard and his men, lashing out angrily but to no avail. Isaviel had at last found a clear shot towards the last Hellhound, her arrow swooping down and ending its life swiftly.

Only then, when it seemed as though the defenders had the upper hand, did reinforcements come, snarling and shrieking cruel laughter, five more Succubi to join their kin, a dozen more Imps crashing through the windows and pouring through the doors after them. And after them came another wave of that horrific stench, rotten…evil. It took all of Isaviel's control not to double over, gagging, as the foul smog thickened in the room, clinging to the ground and curling against the stairs. The city outside was silent as a grave but for the rumble growing beyond the doors, a deep, grinding sound. Something far worse was on its way.

With more of the Watch men distracted, forced out of their tight formation by the increased numbers of enemies, Neeshka, Shandra and Elanee were caught in the thick of the fight. It was then that a terrified shriek tore through the sounds of battle, coming from Tavorick's room. Cursing, Isaviel span around and began to scramble up the stairs, already close to the top but something took a hold of the bow slung on her arm and wrenched with strength far beyond hers. She heard Bishop shout to her and the brush of a leathery wing as the Succubus who had caught her pushed back off the steps. The demon sent the Moon Elf tumbling back, cackling at the sight of her fall.

Years of monk training saved Isaviel from a more brutal tumble, rolling to absorb the impact though the steps beneath her dug into her spine with every jolt. Eventually she was able to catch one of the banister supports and stop her fall down the stairs. Pushing the remains of her bow from her shoulder, she began to stand and turn, unsheathing her kukris as she moved, hearing the whizz of Bishop's arrows as they sought the Succubus behind her. Lashing out as she turned, Isaviel caught the arm of the demon as she dropped, crying out as her wings were torn by arrows, her wound hissing from the magic the kukris held. When the Moon Elf tried to turn and face her fully, however, the demon dodged, using Isaviel's lasting disorientation to her advantage and catching her by the hair, tearing some out as she yanked, catching her throat with a free hand, talons digging into skin. Blood began to trickle down Isaviel's throat and she could not draw breath, wheezing with little success as the Succubus's grip tightened.

A glance up at the balcony showed Bishop struggling to aim properly and Tavorick being dragged through the doors there by Khelgar, Casavir fighting with something as yet unseen in the corridor beyond. At last the Moon Elf found an opportunity and swung her kukri around, cleanly severing the Succubus's arm and sending the demon retreating backwards, shrieking. Spinning around to gain momentum, she easily ended that one's life, turning to run back up the stairs and ensure Tavorick was led to safety. Bishop and Grobnar were not struggling to keep the Imps as bay, Qara and Neeshka aiding on that score, though the same could not be said for everyone.

"Isaviel!" Shandra cried.

Looking around the Moon Elf saw that the Watch men were in serious trouble; two were slumped on the opposite steps and the three Succubi still living had hold of Ballard; by the neck, the leg and the arm. Wild fear showed in his eyes, even as Shandra reached him, making short work of one Succubus…only for the other two to tear him apart with a blood-curdling scream. Cursing again when Shandra screamed as well at the sight, backing up with sweat on her brow and her shortsword clutched in both shaking hands, Isaviel vaulted the banister. She came to land just in front of Qara, who was also staring at the horrific scene with the remaining Watch men cowering behind her as she conjured a protective wall of flame, cutting her off from Isaviel. Shielding her face from the sudden wash of heat and swearing heartily at the sorcerer, the Moon Elf turned towards the Succubi, who were no longer dodging Bishop's arrows. They looked angry and pained with their wings drooping and tattered, but their talons dripped blood and gore as they advance on Shandra at a leisurely pace.

Unsheathing her weapons again, the Moon Elf reached Shandra's side and the woman looked over to her with teary eyes, but paused when she saw her determination, taking a deep breath to try to steady herself. This was far from over, and she had to accept that. Grobnar and Elanee were trying to tend the two wounded men on the steps, and those on the balcony seemed to be hard-pressed as well. Isaviel did not need to look around to recognise the ring of Bishop's longsword as he unsheathed it.

"Be calm, Shandra," Isaviel hissed to her friend, a little taken aback by her own sympathy, "You must not show them." _That you are afraid_.

Shandra did not answer, but out of the corner of her eye Isaviel saw the woman's posture straighten, her hand gripping tightly to her shortsword to stop her shaking as the Succubi stalked around them, grinning wickedly. When the first lunge came, Isaviel was ready to dodge, ducking under the blow, cutting across with her kukri, spinning away…and satisfied to see that she had drawn blood.

"Stop cowering behind the girl's skirts you fools!" she shouted behind herself, towards the men, "If they kill me, I pray to the Lone Wolf that they kill you next."

To emphasise her point, she swung hard at the Succubus's next attack, drawing blood and eliciting a shriek, stepping into the opportunity she had forged, using her rage to propel her on, ducking again, dodging, spinning…and severing her foe's head. Shandra had managed to hold her own against the other Succubus, but it was Neeshka who crept up behind that demon and slew it.

Qara's wall of flame waned and sputtered out, revealing the fearful, quivering men beyond. At last Khelgar was helping Tavorick down the stairs, and though the old man surveyed the scene of dead demons quite closely, he did not look remotely perturbed. Casavir, following in their wake, was limping slightly, blood visible at the left knee joint of his armour. Eventually Bishop followed, his lip split, his longsword bloodied to the hilt. Isaviel rounded on the men who had not fought while the others came to join them, as the great rumbling grew, shaking her through to her bones.

"Your captain may be dead, but we cannot stop now and wait for his killers to come to us," she could have raged at them, and by the Hells she wanted to, but instead she kept her voice as steady as she could, and they listened mutely, "I am now your ranking officer. Whether or not you want it, you must answer to _me_ now. And I say _we _have to get Lord Tavorick to safety – now form up around them," she pointed towards Khelgar and Lord Tavorick, "And let's get out of here!"

For a moment she thought they might not do as she commanded, but after glancing to each other, and at the very different manner of Isaviel's companions, they moved as one to form a semi-circle around Tavorick, swords aimed in ready stances towards the opened doors. The foul smog was worse than ever, rising up to fill the doorway, encroaching on the whole room.

"I don't ever want t' find out what's causin' that stench," Khelgar grunted, gesturing back at the door, gaining several agreeing nods from those around him.

"There are other ways out," Tavorick agreed, "Through the cellars – that way."

As he pointed towards the door just beneath the right set of stairs a great crash resounded against the front wall, shaking the whole room. Everyone scrambled to have a hand in moving the various items blocking the door, until Qara pointed out that whatever was trying to break down the wall probably would not be stopped by a pile of wood, and blew the whole thing up with a spell. A moment or two later and the company waded through the mess of splinters, coughing in the dust it had raised, and down a plain stone slope – unsettling easily wide enough for a large monster to pursue them, thanks to the opulence of the building – and through another set of doors.

The group rushed through the wine cellar – an impressively extensive collection – taking torches from sconces as they went, lit by Qara's spells. Casavir was limping badly by now, leaning heavily on Shandra to keep pace with the others, and Isaviel found herself responsible for Lord Tavorick. She had sent Khelgar ahead with two of the Watch men who were not helping their injured companions to make sure there were no more doors to break down. During it all, even as they rounded the corner to another large room, this one the pantry, the rumbling lasted behind them, though it never grew any louder…

"There are two ways out," Tavorick was telling her as they all filed into the pantry, attempting to barricade the door with barrels of ale and cheese, "That way, to the left, up the stairs, is the servants' exit. It will let you out onto the backstreet, and those doors ahead of us…they lead down to my ancestral tomb and out into the gardens."

There was a strange gravity in his voice, and when Isaviel looked ahead, when she smelled that wretched stench once more and saw the fog curling beneath the double doors ahead, she understood. Whether Tavorick had expected it or not, they had been duped into an ambush. The only way out was up the skeletal stairs, much closer to the doors from which emanated the smog. They would not have time to move aside everything with which they had barricaded the door back to the wine cellar. Then realisation really hit her.

"You don't have the shard, do you?" Isaviel hissed, rounding on Tavorick, rage filling her when she saw his self-satisfied expression, "Nasher set up this whole precarious plan as a distraction."

"Yes, but I did have the hilt," Tavorick did not seem afraid, just shrugging, glancing mildly towards the doors ahead, "I could never have guessed our foe would anticipate our escape like this."

"Barricade those doors! We need to buy ourselves time to get out of here. Whatever's after us…it will be here soon!" Isaviel cried.

Utterly dismissing the aged lord by her side, she rushed to help the others. Casavir's face looked ashen, and he was leaning, panting hard, against the newel post of the stairs leading up to the servants' exit. Seeing him and catching his eye, Isaviel gestured impatiently towards Tavorick and the other injured men, then towards the way out.

"Get him out of here!" she exclaimed, not sure who she was talking to, "Neither of you will do us any good here. Elanee, go with them."

Just as they barred the door something shook the wood, sending splinters flying and those at the door stumbling back. Neeshka and Qara scrambled for the stairs, pushing past Casavir, Tavorick and Elanee and flinging wide the door to the night-time city, fleeing the scene. Another crash came against the doors, and this time the gap it caused allowed a massive clawed hand to rend a great chunk of wood, screeching on the reinforcing iron bars…and snapping them, too.

"Run!" Isaviel cried, and the Watch men all hurtled up the stairs, dragging their injured companions with them, vanishing onto the street outside.

Only as the Moon Elf moved to follow Bishop did she see the fallen form of Grobnar, buried under a collapsed set of shelving. Shandra and Khelgar were helping the struggling Gnome, but the doors were splintering, and something vast showed its silhouette in the flickering of the abandoned torches. When Isaviel paused, Bishop dragged her with him by her arm.

"No! The others are still down there! They can't just fight it by themsel…" she started to protest angrily, but the ranger just glared at her, lifting her by the waist and bodily carrying her up the steps, and though she struggled his grip was like iron.

"I won't let you die for fools like those," the ranger snarled as she fought him, struggling on the last few steps as she wriggled and kicked and hit.

"Since when did you care about what I do with my life?" Isaviel hissed furiously, hearing the door break apart behind them, twisting in his grasp and biting down on his shoulder until he threw her back reflexively…just as he stepped onto the street, and the monster behind her tore the wooden stairs out from under her.


	22. Evil's Mark

"I say! How did my manor get so dark – and cold!" Aldanon exclaimed, "Why have all the carpets been removed? Anyone! A little light, please!"

Sitting up with a jolt from the hard bed, the old scholar momentarily still did not comprehend where he was until he saw the glowing blue wards around the heavy iron door of the prison cell, and the tall, impossible slender form standing by the window.

"You must know that your words will go unheard in this place," his companion sighed, her voice calm, all but whispered, with an odd humming timbre that was alien to the humanoid races Aldanon was familiar with.

"Oh, forgive me, I would not have raised my voice if I had known someone was so close. We should go and look for someone to give us some light," the scholar suggested, but the one who shared his prison shook her hooded head, still staring out of the window, which was too thin even to reach an arm through.

"The door is sealed. But Garius will come for you soon enough."

"Garius? The Master of the Fifth Tower?"

"Yes, and you are alive because he requires your assistance – as he once asked for mine."

"I'm sorry, I can't see you too well at this angle – whatever do you mean?" Aldanon inquired, "I'm always willing to help anyone, you know…"

"In this matter you should choose death," the strange woman told him, "For your sake, and also for the sake of your plane. Garius seeks knowledge of an ancient Illefarn ritual that will grant him the power of the King of Shadows, but his understanding of the ritual is…narrow."

"I can help there!" Aldanon beamed now, as if he had already forgotten her warning, "Knowledge is something of a hobby of mine. Perhaps I could shed some light on the trouble, especially if it involves books or cryptic rituals. I will say that this Garius fellow chose a poor place to do it, though – this does not look remotely like an Illefarn site."

"It is not, you are correct," the unknown woman's eyes flashed towards him, glowing a sharp yellow shade through the darkness, "But power lies deep within the stones of this structure; it is one of the sites of the war against the King of Shadows when he touched this Prime Material Plane decades ago. Part of him still resides here, and it grants strength to his worshippers."

"Well then," Aldanon huffed, rubbing at his eyes but still unable to see any detail in the shadowy room, "No good comes from tinkering around with ancient powers – all this ritual nonsense doesn't sound very wise."

"It is madness," his companion agreed fervently, "But with the madness comes power; Garius will not turn away from that."

* * *

"I am Qaggoth-Yeg; leader of hordes, cleaver of the babau _and _the bebilith, the hunter who does not tire. From the yawning and clamorous layer of Yogguul was I plucked and now I hunt at the bidding of my Master. And who are you my mortal friend? You have a wonderful scent about you. Beneath your weariness and sweat you smell of lives shattered and hopes trod underfoot…of millions of screaming souls. I know that smell…your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think."

Neeshka had heard every word of that, spoken in a terrible, ground-shaking rumble, all of those who had made it out had heard it. She, at least, had felt guilt fill her body and soul thoroughly. Isaviel was trapped in there with that beast – Neeshka's only true friend! The only person who had consistently looked out for her…and she had abandoned her.

The Tiefling saw Bishop's expression, before he composed himself, the stricken look on his face. Blood had welled over his leather jerkin where the Moon Elf had bitten him to break free, but he did not seem to notice. He just looked angrier than ever now, ready to kill anyone who crossed him. Even when he had tried to save Isaviel, he had been trying to betray the others; Khelgar, Shandra and Grobnar. The Tiefling could only hope that the beast they faced was not so fearsome as it had promised to be, and that they had some chance against it.

"We have to go back to them," she said into the uncomfortable silence that had settled, turning to those who remained; the two injured Watch men were slumped against a wall, pale and fairly unconscious from the effort of their escape, and their comrades sent her incredulous looks.

"That's not in our orders," they denied angrily, and Casavir pulled himself to his feet, starting to turn to them in righteous indignation, still pale even after Elanee's healing spells, "And we won't be sent to our deaths by a demon-girl who might be on that monster's side for all we know."

Before any more words could be uttered, Bishop rounded on the one who had spoken, unsheathing his longsword and smashing him in the face with its pommel, then grabbing him by the throat and dragging him to the door which led back down to the cellar.

"How about I throw you in too? Might be that your pathetic hide proves more appetising for that monster," Bishop snarled, shaking the man in his grasp, who had blood streaming from his nose and a black eye already blossoming.

"No…no! I'll help you, just let go of me!"

The others moved to help him, shouting out threats and insults, but Casavir blocked their way.

"Though I cannot agree with Bishop's methods, he is correct to fight for Isaviel's life. I will not allow you to worsen our odds."

"There is no way that I am going back down there," Qara threw in now, and Elanee sent her a disgusted look.

"Then you must go and inform the Watch that we need help…and the priests of Lathander that we may require them once more," Casavir told her sharply, pointing down the street, "The temple and the garrison are but two blocks that way," he gestured to one of the dissenting men, wincing a little as he moved but otherwise determined, "You – take your injured fellows to the temple as well. Lord Tavorick – we require directions through the other doorway you spoke of."

Neeshka hardly listened, watching Bishop release his terrified captive and stalk back towards the others, his sword still in his hand. Elanee had paid attention however, and morphed immediately into the form of an owl, propelling herself ahead into the dark night, and the others raced after her.

* * *

Qaggoth-Yeg fell to the cellar floor at last, black blood gushing from many wounds across its greyish hide and welling from its hammer-toothed maw. Its size was immense; its long arms were probably the width of Isaviel and Shandra combined, and when it had swung them against the wall holding the doors the stone had cracked and crumbled. Massive spikes ran the length of its spine, dripping some greenish slime that was probably poisonous, while its form somewhat resembled a giant bipedal toad.

Isaviel and Shandra leaned on each other as the room shook upon the demon's collapse, dropping their weapons and gasping, while Khelgar slumped to his knees from exhaustion. Grobnar had been unable to help them, pinned beneath the heavy wooden shelves as he was, and his leg looked to be broken – as was his bow. At some point in the battle he had fainted from the pain, but he was still breathing.

The demon's body had begun to smoke and dissolve in the air, collapsing in on itself, when running footsteps became audible to them. Isaviel saw the shine of Casavir's hammer before she saw any of the others. She could barely comprehend them through the exhaustion and the pain, ever more aware of the gash the demon had opened across her back. The wound already felt hot as though from infection – or poison – and when she tried to step forward it burned in more ways than she could have imagined possible. She smiled to see Neeshka's concern, surprised that the flighty Tiefling had plucked up the courage to return to help. The same could not be said for Qara, who was nowhere in sight, but that was far less surprising for her.

Bishop's expression was unreadable as he approached her, a little ahead of Casavir and Elanee – who were also accompanied by two wide-eyed Watch men. The ranger caught her as her legs buckled, and she could at last recognise rage, relief…and then fear in his dark eyes as he stared down at her. She managed a weak smile which she wished was mocking, trying to keep herself upright with a hold on his leather jerkin, but her grip failed and she realised her hands were slick with blood.

"Even when I try to save you I end up wishing you dead," he snarled, and she choked out a laugh, her strength failing before she could manage to touch his cheek. _And even when I wish you dead I want to save you._

"The feeling's mutual," she told him in a weak whisper, "Do you wish me dead now?"

She did not hear his response, for the pain and the poison claimed her consciousness.

* * *

The Moonstone Mask, located at the centre of the Blacklake District, had become one of the most renowned – and expensive – festhalls of the Frozen North since its refurbishment after the Wailing Death. Once it had been a commonly known 'secret' that the establishment was less than…reputable, but now those rumours were less widely whispered. Ophala Cheldarstorm, the Moonstone Mask's owner, had made her true identity known to Lord Nasher and no longer needed to be covert in quite the same way. Amidst the expensive wines and foods patrons whispered to the serving girls and dancing girls when they were drunk, and those girls came to Ophala with everything they heard. That was the well-known aspect of her spy network, at least.

Tonight was like any other at the Moonstone Mask; busy and rowdy, full of laughter and music, wine being poured into cups on every table. Ophala had been making a circuit around the room when Melia entered, conversing with some of her more distinguished guests – ageing a little now, tending towards plumpness, she remained an elegant and comely patroness. Her greying hair was hidden beneath a black wig, knotted elaborately with long tresses falling down her back, a string of delicate pearls around her neck. As soon as she saw Melia, however, she paused, raising her eyebrows in inquiry and gesturing towards the stairs beyond the bar. The younger woman nodded and pushed through the crowd in that direction, ignoring the comments and grasping hands of the drunk patrons she passed.

Melia stepped through the door to the upper levels of the Moonstone Mask just as the bell was rung to announce that serving hours were over. It was very late, and darkness hung heavy and thick over the streets of Neverwinter outside. Someone had lit the candles on the table at the corner of this wood-panelled corridor and Melia took one of these up as she turned to see Ophala following in her footsteps, closing the door behind her.

"Do you have it?" the mistress of the Moonstone Mask asked.

"I do. Tavorick played his part…with enthusiasm, and the guards Nasher sent did not catch the tune we harped," Melia nodded, producing the shard she carried and watching it glint in the candlelight, as large as her hand, a red jewel glinting at its centre, just below the surface.

Ophala's smile grew wide at her words and they stepped through into one of the chambers reserved for Melia herself.

"You need not speak in such riddles," the older woman laughed now, "My wards are strong, reinforced by a few old friends of wizarding repute. The other Harpers will be pleased to know of this, and I speak for the Cloaktower with certainty when I say that the Many-Starred Cloaks are most pleased as well."

"I should take this to Sir Nevalle at once."

"Of course, once the patrons have left I will have the guards waiting downstairs for you."

Once Ophala had gone Melia changed quickly from her long, heavy dress into simple leggings and a leather tunic, pulling on the blue and white tabard of the Neverwinter Nine. Once fully dressed, her hair plaited plainly down her back, she girded on her sword-belt and pinned the badge of the Harpers to the top of the lacing of her tunic. The shard fitted neatly into the pouch hanging from her belt…and once she could no longer hear the sounds of the crowd downstairs she knew that it was time to leave.

Even before Melia reached the door of her room she heard the crash of wood breaking downstairs and the candles in her room flickered momentarily, relighting with blue flame. Dread filled her at the sight, and a ringing scream cut through the brief, fear-filled silence. She heard the baying of hounds, running footsteps, the brief ring of steel…and all was still and silent once more, the Harper agent of Neverwinter still standing, frozen, listening to the throb of her pulse in her ears. There was no time…it had all happened so fast. They had been found out; the one they sought to deceive had instead deceived them.

When no more sounds came, Melia wrenched open the door and, skidding briefly on the floorboards in her urgency, turned for the window to her left, at the far end of the corridor. Below that stood the roof of the stables where Ophala kept her horses; if she could break through the window she would have a relatively painless route to the ground below, and a chance of escape…

"I would not flee if I were you," a deep, gruff voice suggested coldly from behind her and a wall of flame erupted barely a foot in front of the window, forcing her to come up short with a yelp, dropping to one knee as she twisted around, smoke drifting from the heel of one boot.

A strange man stood watching her with cold amusement evident, a pair of gigantic black dogs flanking him, their eyes glowing a deep red even in the dim bluish light. He regarded her with a hard smile on his bearded face, white-grey eyes glowing from beneath the deep hood of the dark cloak in which he was wrapped. Red veins of light pulsed across his cheeks, flashing over his eyes with every blink. As the dogs snarled, drooling blood from their recent kills – the blood of her friends! – green fire grew around the man's fists, and Melia pulled herself to her feet, unsheathing her shortsword with a determined ring.

"You should have offered to give me the shard," the man sighed with affected weariness, shrugging as he raised his flaming hands, dripping green flames to hiss upon the floor at his feet, levelling emotionless eyes towards the woman before him, "Instead you have chosen to die. Allow me to oblige you."

* * *

"Your incompetence never fails to astound me, Torio," Garius noted coldly, his pallid hands placed to either side of the scrying bowl as he stared down into its silvery depths at the image of the sharp-faced ambassador who was so ready to profess her snivelling apologies from the comfort of Luskan, "But what you have achieved this day may yet save you."

"My-my lord, I live to serve…as ever…"

Tired of her sycophancy, Garius turned away from the scrying pool to face the old scholar seated at his cluttered table in the stone chamber, peering down into the books of forbidden necromantic lore with an odd, detached calm. He was nodding as he read a certain passage, looking up at last to blink at the Lord of the Fifth Tower of Luskan with innocent trust. This had once been a council room for Neverwinter's knights of old, but now it was crumbling, its tables smelled of rotten wood, its floorboards smelled of rotting rats, and the guards who held the door of the large circular chamber were Luskan wizards. It did not matter that rain was leaking through a hole in the patched roof or that the dust was an inch thick on every deserted bench and shelf; they did not need to be here for long.

"Yes, I believe you have all the components you will require now," Aldanon nodded now, "My studies – thank you kindly for giving me the opportunity to study amongst the books you have amassed, by the way – my studies have told me that you simply need to carve out these runes in this shape," he turned a book around, indicating an appropriate drawing, "And the ritual can begin. I must say, I am impressed by the unusual angle of your academic interests…"

"Silence, old man. You have played your part," Garius interrupted disinterestedly, gesturing to the men at the door, "Take him back to his cell with the other one. We may yet need him – and her – alive to see through the stages of the ritual."

"Surely you do not mean to go through with this spell, young man?" Aldanon inquired, more with surprise than horror, standing obligingly and allowing the men to lead him to the door, "There are so many ways it could go wrong! Would you not prefer lichdom? Surely that is an easier path…"

His voice echoed along the corridor beyond and then faded with the clang of a grate. Garius sneered to himself at the old man's innocent words, lifting the book the scholar had indicated and staring intently at the runes before him. Yes, this looked right. Soon he would have no need for the wretched shards, no need for the King of Shadows. He would transcend them all.

* * *

_ … your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think._Those words haunted Isaviel's fevered dreams and continued to unsettle her even when she achieved delirious consciousness. She had been dimly aware of someone settling her into that bed in that small, white-washed room with that great glass roof through which the sun shone so brightly, with no curtains to shield her.

She remembered a strong arm around her as if the one who carried her there had slept by her side for the first night. Bishop. When she woke fully she was alone, though only briefly, for the healers came, forcing her to drink the bitterest liquid she had ever tasted. Whatever it was, it had stopped the burning spreading through her body from the wound in her back.

At times she heard Sand's voice, or Shandra's. She caught a glimpse of Casavir, and of Duncan standing by her bedside wringing his hands, Sal patting his shoulder but not looking much less distraught. Elanee brought her Mere berries, and that made her dream of her childhood hunting with Daeghun, learning how to fight with blades, how to shoot with a bow, how to fletch arrows and how to make do in the wilds. In those days she had not spoken a word of the Common Tongue, and when she woke to see Sand she spoke to him in garbled Elvish words. He had humoured her and responded in the same language, but Shandra's confusion had forced her to remember where she was. Neeshka sat with her for several hours of the second night, and Khelgar came to check on her in the morning, bringing her a pie and an apple. The fruit was small, probably among the last to be seen for the year, but it tasted good and made a change from the bitter drinks and plain foods the healers brought her. There was no more sign of Bishop, and not once did she see Qara.

By the morning of the third day Isaviel was strong enough to sit up, able now to recognise the sunburst insignia stamped on the wall ahead of her, shimmering in the light of the real sun overhead, comprised of plates of yellow gold and red gold and rose gold. This was the Temple of Lathander, the Morninglord; god of youth, the dawn and renewal among other things. The bed was comfortable and the bath they left for her was warm and refreshing with soap scented with the flowers of summer. Still, it had made her aware of all the scars she had amassed, and the dented mirror in the bathing alcove showed to her the injury on her back. It had been stitched neatly and carefully, but it curved in a thin crimson line across her spine almost from her left hip to her right shoulder, where the puckered line of one wing began at her shoulder-blade. She had felt what remained of her wings before, but she had never seen them until then, and now she could only think of one thing at the sight. _… your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think._

The light blazing in from above was unendingly uncomfortable, as was the goodly piety of the priests who came to check on her once she had pulled on the simple white robe they had left for her. She would be glad to be back at Duncan's dingy establishment where the ale was good, the food homely and the company…beloved, though only now did she recognise it. It was all the more endearing that The Sunken Flagon never seemed to draw in as many customers as it was intended to…but it seemed to have attracted a rather lively set of regulars and a strange set of live-in adventurers.

When Khelgar brought her another pie from Sal that afternoon she kissed him on the cheek, such was her gratitude, eliciting a half-hearted grumble and a telling blush from the Dwarf. He still had several cuts and bruises evident on his face and his upper arm was bandaged, but otherwise appeared healthy – Shandra when she joined them, Casavir in tow, was in a similar condition. The paladin seemed greatly recovered from his leg injury, thanks to Elanee's quickly administered healing spells.

"We…wanted to thank you," Shandra began almost as soon as she entered, her blue eyes so honest, her voice so heart-felt, "For wanting to come back and help us. Without that we all would have died, or Grobnar surely would have."

"The Gnome lives, though his leg is broken and taking longer to heal than expected," Casavir volunteered, "He conveys his thanks. As does Lord Tavorick."

"That bastard," Isaviel groaned, and the paladin looked at her reproachfully…though it seemed for a second that his lips twitched and he might have smiled instead, "What does he have to say for himself? Duping us just to get the shard to safety?"

When her words were met with three identically grave expressions, a chill went up her spine.

"It didn't work, did it?" she asked through gritted teeth, "They risked our lives for a plan that _failed_."

"They did," Casavir admitted softly from his place by Shandra's side, the woman sitting on the end of the bed, "Whoever was hunting for it knew Lord Nasher's strategic style well, and sent the demon you faced as a distraction while something far worse followed Melia to the…Moonstone Mask at the centre of the Blacklake District. She was a Harper agent, as well as a member of the Nine acting under the orders of the Many-Starred Cloaks, an organisation run from the Cloaktower in service of Neverwinter."

"…and whatever reached her killed her?" Isaviel did not need to look at the responses of her friends, pressing a hand to her forehead in frustration, "So whoever wanted the shard got the shard. The last person on Faerûn who I would want to have it. Is it Black Garius? The King of Shadows himself? Who sent the thugs to capture Aldanon? Whoever they were, they weren't the same as the master of the demons and devils."

"You are right in your assumption," Casavir nodded, "The men questioned for breaking into Aldanon's house have informed us that Luskan sent them; their leader said a black-robed wizard spoke to him with an illusory image, informing him to make sure the mage sent with the group could take Aldanon alive. There is yet hope that we can recover him. Whoever commands the demons and devils seems to be working both against Neverwinter and against Luskan. And they have great power at their command, as well, evidently."

"Why would Garius want Aldanon alive without a shard? Where has he taken him?"

"I believe I have word on that score," Sand's voice agreed, and Isaviel looked past Shandra and Casavir to see the half-Elven wizard standing in the doorway watching her thoughtfully, "Lord Nasher has asked to see you, if you have the strength. He has some more information on Black Garius _and _Aldanon, Sir Nevalle assures me. Though nothing more about their lost shard."

"We kept yours safe for ye, don't ye worry," Khelgar promised from his seat beside her, producing her sword belt from the pack in which he had carried his offers of food.

Her kukris were tellingly absent; once buried in the body of Qaggoth-Yeg they had not been retrieved. Only her daggers remained, sheathed in the belt, but the shards were still safe, all four of them, now held in a separate pouch which could be worn strapped tightly against her back, along with their hilt. All together they weighed less than they did separately, thanks to their extra-planar magic.

"I will go to Nasher, then," Isaviel nodded, swinging her bare feet to the ground, "I am well enough."

She was relieved to find that she could stand steadily, without the help the priests had insisted upon giving her when she was led to her bath earlier in the day. She felt perfectly strong, rejuvenated in fact, and determined not to be cowed by the poison of a wretched monster she fought and bested, no matter what he said about her parents. _…your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think._

"I will thank the priests of Lathander for you," Casavir nodded, relief evident in his eyes, and the Moon Elf sent him an exasperated look for his chivalrous manners.

"I brought your other things – some clothes, instead of that invalid's robe," Shandra smiled as Sand and Khelgar left as well.

Nodding her approval, Isaviel took the garments from her and moved into the alcove to change, sensing that the woman wanted to speak to her alone. She was pleased to see that Shandra had thought to bring her the embroidered white tunic she favoured for city life, along with her familiar black leggings.

"I know you don't like it when Casavir expects you to be as…paladinic as him, and I know you hate it when people tell you something's your duty and you have to do it for the 'good of all'. But…I just wanted you to know that I think you're better than all that. Nasher's words were cruel when he blackmailed you towards that knighthood; he knows you don't want it, and he still said those unjust things."

"Shandra," Isaviel sighed, lacing up her tunic and beginning to twist her hair into a knot behind her head, "I have done a lot of 'bad things'…not so heartless as Bishop, perhaps, but I do work for Neeshka. And I like it, I won't stop it just because you admire me for one brave act of madness. You know what that means…"

"I don't care," Shandra responded stubbornly, ferociously, as the Moon Elf sat beside her on the bed to pull on her boots, "You saved us when we fought the demon, even though Bishop tried to stop you. So many of our companions snigger about Grobnar behind his back…and you're not guiltless. But you decided to save him anyway. Maybe against your better judgment."

Isaviel did not know how to respond to those words, her hands stilling as she had begun to lace up her first boot. She sent an uncomfortable sidelong glance towards Shandra to see the woman smiling at her warmly.

"And you did well to make the men stay when they looked like they'd help us no more. And you helped _me_ when I was afraid," her eyes became sad at the memory of the horrors they had seen that night, "You might feel uncomfortable right now…but I don't. And I'm saying thank you. You've shown me you're really worth fighting for. We're all with you…against this 'Black Garius', to get Aldanon back…and to get to my grandfather's Haven. We've got your back."

Isaviel smiled weakly, her heart flipping. But when she looked back quickly at her boots, yanking at the laces now, all she could think of was _…your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think._

* * *

Elanee was relieved to see the others in good health. The priests of Lathander in the temple, outside which the druid had been waiting, had done well in saving Isaviel from her poisoned wound – they had acted quickly enough that the Moon Elf even seemed healthier than before. She walked with purpose, as always, nodding to the druid with an all but disinterested acknowledgement, simply expecting her to fall in with the others. Growing used to the others failures to listen to her warnings, often to acknowledge her at all, Elanee had learned far more of them than they had of her.

Isaviel had indeed looked rested, all but completely healed, not limping or struggling to move, matching Sand's stride easily, talking earnestly with the wizard. Her eyes were sad, a small frown on her face, and Elanee worried at that. The Moon Elf ordinarily hid behind a mask of sarcastic humour and a crooked smile; before she had been scarred, her expressions were deceptively angelic. Truth be told, she was far from disfigured, beautiful in an exotic, mysterious way beyond what Elanee could hope for herself. She had those large, emotive golden eyes and the way they changed to foggy grey in the darkness, to red when she raged added to her allure as well as her frightfulness. Her hair was longer and thicker than Elanee could hope to have achieved, such a deep, deep blue, like the deepest stretches of sea visible on the horizon from the coast. Her skin was far from flawless now, and the druid took a little comfort in that. She had helped the priests with the unconscious Elf, observed the new injury across her back, the raised scars where her wings had been…

Still, they all listened closely to Isaviel's words, believed with such conviction that her goals were worth following, and that they were the right ones. Somehow she had managed to gather together her strangely mismatched group of friends and allies who, to varying degrees, loved her, loathed her, wanted her, needed her…resented her. But they all agreed that she was the one they should follow, and the Elders had told Elanee that the shards Isaviel was to learn more of, ultimately to gather together, would help win the war against the coming King of Shadows. That meant that Elanee intended to follow her as well, for the good of the Mere, for the good of her Elders, the Elves who had taken her in as a tiny human baby.

Elanee felt more of an Elf than a human thanks to her unorthodox upbringing, and still felt uncomfortable in the city – none of those actually of Elvish blood in Neverwinter seemed to share her difficulty. Sand and Duncan both seemed far more human than Elvish anyway, and Isaviel had no problem fitting in here either, though her upbringing shared more with Elanee's than it did with any of the others. Thus the druid had wandered the boundary of Neverwinter Wood alone for most of the days after the trial, when they were not caught up in some new difficulties, trying to avoid Grobnar's love songs. When none of the others paid her any heed, she wondered why it was that the Gnome who they all laughed at in derision had to be the one who wanted to follow her around, singing grating, poorly rhymed love songs.

Isaviel did not have such problems, evidently. She had managed to half-tame that cruel, sneering monster of a ranger, enough that he would not leave her in the Temple of Lathander until he knew she would recover. She had made close friends with the Tiefling, and increasingly shared a smile or two with Shandra, as well. The wizard, Sand, who walked so close to her then on their path to Castle Never, was warm and gentle with her, solicitous in his attentions. Now as they reached the main square of the Blacklake District, just before the hill rose up sharply on its ascent to the castle, the two shared a laugh, the Moon Elf's frown dissolving, the look illuminating her face, and she slipped an arm through his. Elanee could not avoid the feeling that Isaviel was using Sand's affections somehow – she was so changeable with him; one moment completely uninterested in his kindnesses, the next laughing and joking.

The druid followed in the wake of Shandra and Casavir as they made their way up the hill now, struggling to keep up as she always did on the busy streets, disorientated by all the chatter and the imperiously unswerving paths of knights and off-duty guardsmen heading away from the castle. So few birds sang in the trees, which were all so artificially placed at odd intervals on street corners, in gardens, by walls, and around the Blacklake waters themselves. That always made her feel uncomfortable.

Worst of all for Elanee, more than the indignity of the others' dismissals of her, or of Grobnar's attentions, or of the wretched, unnatural stone city itself, was the way that Shandra and Casavir responded to each other and moved together ahead of her. She could watch the paladin a day long and more, the bright shine of his eyes, the clarity of his skin, how it glowed to her eyes in the sun! Without his armour, dressed humbly for one of his background, she could see the curve of impressive muscles on his upper arms and, when he turned to speak to his companion, his chest as well. He strode with purpose, his handsome face always so calm, his expressions so gentle. His words were invariably well-chosen, perfectly uttered in his deep voice, and more than any of the others he made an effort to be kind to Elanee, to include her in discussions. He would make sure she was informed when she had been away, and had even offered a few times to practice in battle training with her, as he and the others did together. She had declined; her spells and her improving shapechanging would serve her better than any feeble attempts with her sickle. She was naturally weak and fragile, and truth be told she did not want him to see how poorly she fought in her human form.

All of these observations of Casavir came with a pang, however. He was smiling now, more brightly than he did for the others, at something Shandra had said. His eyes glinted with mirth as he regarded her, flickering to watch her lips as she talked, lightly touching her elbow as they moved aside for a donkey and the wagon it pulled for its hard-pressed master. The closer they walked to Castle Never, the nearer the farmer and the paladin became, and by the time they were stepping through the great front doors his hand had not moved from her lower back for a sizable length of time. It made Elanee feel angry…guilty…and then angry all over again to see how the pair interacted, two beautiful, perfect-hearted people together. Every time Casavir spoke, Shandra would look up at him with a certain flick of her hair, a bright smile, a twinkle in her eyes.

The guards at the gate observed Elanee as she passed with significant incredulity, their eyes lingering on her brown robes and on the branches she wove into her hair. She still did not understand the distinction here; from what she could make out, Isaviel also wore a wooden stick through the bun in her hair. And the druid at least wore a dress, by far the more favoured clothing for women in this city, while the same could not be said oftentimes for Isaviel, Shandra or Neeshka.

They were ushered into the main hall of Castle Never almost immediately, before Elanee could properly begin to comprehend the vast atrium, bustling with people, rigid, expressionless guards at every door in heavy armour. She heard Isaviel make some derisive comment about this being the 'throne room of Lord Nasher, though he tried to pretend it was not'. To Elanee, the enormous hall ahead, with its cold, hard marble floor and those forcibly carven pillars, was terrifying, monstrous, and horribly ugly. The ceiling – what a woe that it was there at all! – rose up so dizzyingly high, ridged and graven in so many ways, with a great circular hole to allow only the most meagre amount of rainwater in. To make it worse, all the elaborately dressed men and women nearby, glinting in gold and diamonds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, with shimmering silks and smooth velvets, gawped and sneered so unashamedly at the group of adventurers walking down the centre of this hall.

Just when Elanee thought that the walk would go on forever, they reached the partitioned area within which Lord Nasher sat upon his throne. He was cut from the same honourable stone as Casavir but without any of his evident kindness, grace or beauty. The door clanged shut behind them, blocking out much of the sound from the great hall beyond, and here there were far fewer people, though no less unnatural stonework and artistry.

Nevalle was at attention by his Nasher's side, but relaxed a little when he saw Isaviel and her four companions – evidently they had been waiting for her. Nasher's eyes fixed upon each of them in turn, and it warmed Elanee's heart a little that he looked upon her with no more judgement than he did Shandra or Casavir. He sneered a little when he beheld Sand, now standing a little behind Isaviel, beside Shandra. The Lord of Neverwinter's eyes were hard when he saw Isaviel, and the Moon Elf stood straight and proud to withstand his distrust and dislike, the bitter look she wore reminiscent of Bishop most of all.

"Squire, I am relieved to see you are well again. It grieves me to admit that our attempt to divert the shard's seeker cost us the dear life of Lady Melia, but it seems that there is little more that can be done at this time. Her killer was a powerful spellcaster and has covered his tracks well; if there were a trail I would ask you to hunt him down, retrieve the shard and end the threat he poses – whatever threat that be," Nasher explained, but Isaviel's expression only grew colder, her eyes flickering distrustfully over to the one at Nasher's right, an enormously fat woman with one drooping eyelid and three chins, a dark triangular tattoo over her left cheek, "Now, however, a new threat has occurred which you must deal wi…"

"I think you'd better explain yourself," the Moon Elf snapped, "I don't care what you think you can tell me to do…not until you tell me exactly why it is you thought it was just and good to risk my companions and I for one shard – when I carry four."

"This wizard who summoned the demons against Tavorick has made no effort to kill you personally, squire. It may be that the shards you carry are fakes…"

"Oh, I assure you they are not fake, Lord Nasher," Sand put in smugly now, and the lord's expression flickered with brief annoyance.

"Or perhaps they do not hold the power this wizard seeks. Tavorick was willing to give up his _life_ for Neverwinter. The least you could do is…"

"Die obligingly for you? You'd dance on my grave, I'm sure…if it didn't befoul your honour and your boots to get that close to me," Isaviel smiled bitterly, "I've half a mind to rip out the shard I have lodged in my chest and give the lot over to you. You'd have no more need for me…and I'd have no more need for you."

"I would watch my tone if I were you, squire. You wear those daggers out of privilege for what you have done for me thus far. I would happily have them taken from you."

"My lord," the fat woman by Nasher's side interrupted the rising tension, stepping forward toward Isaviel with a painfully false smile on her bejowled face, the badge on her right shoulder showing her to be affiliated with Luskan, "I hate to interrupt, but the matter for which we are gathered is far more important than whatever these…shards…are of which you speak."

"I fear you are right," Nasher agreed, though his tone rang with loathing, "Ambassador Natale, you may proceed."

"You are Luskan," Isaviel stated icily, her hands straying naturally to her dagger hilts, "Speak quickly, lest I accidentally slit your throat."

"Now, now. Your hatred comes from a misunderstanding, young lady, one which I seek to correct," Ambassador Natale simpered, her voice entirely ill-suited for the task, "I have come to your Lord Nasher in haste to warn him of a terrible threat posed within his own lands by Black Garius, the debauched wizard of the 'Fifth Tower', a native of my city. It has so transpired that he is in possession of the Tome of Iltkazar, an item for the theft of which Ruathym recently blamed Luskan…and the two nations have gone to war over it. Though we of Luskan's government never knew of this, Garius has set us all up, to deflect his home's focus away from his own wretched schemes and underhandedly plot against all of the Sword Coast, not just this city."

"I suggest you get to your point, _ambassador_, my patience is already worn thin," Isaviel warned, glancing pointedly at Lord Nasher.

"Oh, I have just reached my point," Natale smirked, "For Garius has gone to Crossroad Keep, within Neverwinter's jurisdiction, to harness the remembered power of the King of Shadows, the monstrosity whom he has covertly 'worshipped' since its fall decades ago. He seeks to use this power with the Tome of Iltkazar – which contains the detail on how the King of Shadows was originally created – to make himself into a far more powerful being than his master. This cannot be allowed to happen, and that is why I have come here."

"He's Luskan," Isaviel stated, "Why don't you do something about it?"

"Because that would be breaking the treaty," Ambassador Natale pretended to look horrified.

"Sydney Natale speaks truly, squire," Nasher agreed grudgingly, "This Garius acts within Neverwinter's lands and so Neverwinter must stop him. It transpires that Aldanon has seemingly been captured by him to advise on the methods of the ritual – a ritual which also requires the power of a silver sword…or perhaps its shards. It would appear that the shards are ultimately bound up in the King of Shadows in some way. More than enough incentive to send you to Crossroad Keep for me."

"I'll go," Isaviel admitted with a sneer, "But it sounds like I'll need a lot of help."

"Oh, do not fear on that score," Nasher smirked, "I have already made arrangement to supply you with a contingent of Many-Starred Cloaks and Greycloaks, your very own to command under your new title of captain."


	23. At the Crossroad

The ride north-east from Neverwinter to Crossroad Keep would take the better part of two days in good weather, but as it was the way was slowed by the persistent rains, turning the farmers' roads to deep quagmires of mud. It was only a matter of time before several of the wagons carrying supplies for the fifty soldiers became caught in the tracks, several not only a foot-deep in mud, but many others with their wheels trapped against hidden tree roots. The axle of one had broken upon a particularly heavy impact with an unseen boulder.

"Incompetent fools," Bishop sniffed as Isaviel rode back to join the others at the temporary encampment just off the road, "It's starting to get too dark to move on any more. At this rate we'll have to set up camp right here in the mud."

He and Neeshka were sat under the meagre shelter of a skeletal tree, atop the embankment a short way from the roadside, watching the struggling soldiers and the dreary scenery, and it was to the Tiefling that he spoke, utterly failing to acknowledge the Moon Elf's arrival. He did look over after a moment to send venomous glares to those soldiers who paused to salute their new captain. These were gestures which Isaviel felt herself naturally recoiling at, as well, as her horse wound its way past the already mud-filled tents towards her friends, several of whom had treated into the trees beyond.

"I'm tempted to leave them behind," Isaviel sighed, dropping from her horse, who an embarrassingly attentive soldier led away for her even before she could think to ask; she was still watching him go, shaking her head in discontent, when she spoke again, "I doubt anyone that poorly trained will do us much good in the coming combat."

Neither Neeshka nor Bishop responded to her; the Tiefling took badly to the dreary weather, as rain made her far more uncomfortable than strong heat, while Bishop had barely acknowledged Isaviel at all since she had recovered. He rode as far from her as he could get, he spoke as few words to her as was possible, and he seemed angrier than ever. The Moon Elf did not have time to corner him about this and had instead rode ahead with Sand and the leader of the Many-Starred Cloaks, Valarian, a startling albino Elvish mage who had researched Crossroad Keep's defences thoroughly.

"…but I suppose we have no choice but to make do with what we've been given," Isaviel sighed, turning back to watch the men struggling with the wagons over by the road, slipping amusingly in the mud, while others fought the wind and rain to set up tents, "It's better than no soldiers and no supplies, I suppose."

The fields were utterly bare after the dreadful harvest of that year. Neverwinter itself had not felt the effects of the struggle for food, with much in store and much else secretly shipped in from Waterdeep and Amn to avoid spreading frightening rumours. But the farmers they had met on the road herding their livestock told a different tale. One did not need to speak to them to know that they were afraid of the dawning winter, and their sunken cheeks betrayed their frugal use of the supplies they had. Their livestock were skin and bones, not worth killing for meat, and there was no way any profit had been made that year.

"At least we get a chance to rest," Neeshka pointed out, rather belatedly attempting to sound up-beat about this; she sent a half-hearted smile over at Isaviel when the Moon Elf glanced over to look at her.

The Tiefling was trying to sound cheerful, but she was huddled closely against the tree trunk, both hands keeping her hood over her head, tail helping to hold closed the rest of her cloak. Water was dripping off the tip of her nose and she looked thoroughly uncomfortable in that weather; the tree had lost most of its leaves, which formed a sodden orange bed beneath them. They were hard-pressed for shelter at this time of year, and it made the weather even more infuriating.

"Let's just say I think I'd rather burn than drown," Bishop grunted dismissively, taking a long swig from his skin of wine and pulling out some provisions from his pack; dried meat and hard bread. The fare of the adventurer.

"How much longer do you think we'll be travelling?" Qara exclaimed from within her expensive, oiled, fur-lined cloak as she rode up to the trio to see the pile-up of stuck wagons, "I can't believe I agreed to come with you. There's so much _rain_."

"Go and join in sword-practice with the others," Bishop suggested, waving his skin of wine at her, "With any luck one of them might run you through by accident."

"Ugh. You disgust me," the sorcerer sneered, instead beginning to wheel her horse back around to the road, watching him disdainfully over her shoulder, her blue eyes flashing dangerously when he made a rude gesture at her, "I pray to all the gods that you slip some day and get caught in one of your own traps. A fitting death for someone as…revolting…as you."

"If you knew all the ways I have planned to kill you, you'd not dare say that," Bishop growled warningly, placing a hand on his sword hilt, but the sorcerer just laughed contemptuously and spurred her horse away, spattering one of the men by the tents with mud.

Isaviel groaned in weary contempt for the pair of them, turning and patting Neeshka on the shoulder as she passed the Tiefling, heading further amongst the sparsely placed trees which served to mark out two farmers' territories. She could see Elanee picking through the leaves, while Khelgar had propped his axe against a tree and was practicing his unarmed fighting skills against one of the Greycloaks, who had blunted his sword appropriately. Isaviel wondered how he would fare against sharp steel.

The Moon Elf did not immediately see where Shandra and Casavir had gone – they had initially been practicing beside Khelgar, but now she noticed they had moved a little away. They had swapped weapons, and though Casavir held Shandra's shortsword with ease, the weapon perhaps better complimenting his stance with a shield than his usual choice, the woman was struggling with the glowing hammer. Every time she attempted to swing it, the weapon would tilt in her hands and sent her dipping to the ground. Mud was spraying up each time she lifted it, but the pair were laughing. Gods, Casavir was _laughing_.

Curious now, Isaviel became one with the dull grey shadows of the early evening and drifted towards them on feet well-used to treading a silent path through far muddier ground, concealing herself behind a pair of closely twined trees and peering through the gap. She had noticed Casavir and Shandra were beginning to spend a great deal of time together, but it had never struck her before. The way they laughed, the way they were not _really_ practicing. It drew a crooked, rueful smile from her that she was so willing to eavesdrop on their flirting, but she felt no guilt for it. The others could not have failed to notice their behaviour either. If Sand had not ridden ahead to confer with the scouts, eager to know everything on his first journey to a battle in many years, he would have done the same, she did not doubt. She needed to know the dealings of her companions after all, did she not?

"I give up…for now," Shandra was laughing.

The woman put the hammer down at last with a playful gesture of finality, brushing her dripping blonde her from out of her eyes and unwittingly leaving behind a smear of mud on her cheek. Sand had described her once as 'rustically beautiful' and he was proven unswervingly correct to Isaviel in that moment, watching Shandra with Casavir. The woman's hair was a lovely honey blonde even soaking and hanging in strands like that; a little paler when dry and flowing in its usual untamed waves. Her skin was flawless, slightly tanned from hours of working in the sun, her eyes clear blue. She was certainly too muscular around the shoulders to be deemed classically beautiful, but she was shapely as well, without a self-conscious need to show it off. She preferred to dress in her farmers' attire in the city, and now she was perfectly happy in chainmail and leather breeches. Casavir certainly did not seem put off.

"My lady," he spoke the words so fervently, so gently, stepping closer, and she automatically took her sword from him, sheathing it with a little spray of droplets which tinkled softly against the paladin's armour.

Her eyes were staring into his as though mesmerised, a little nervous smile on her face as he stepped closer still, gently wiping the mud from her cheek with the side of his gloved hand. But with that gesture he moved to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing over her skin as he leaned closer. They both looked so nervous, Isaviel wished she could somehow have told them ahead of time that they both clearly wanted the same thing.

"Did I fight well?" Shandra smiled slowly, her eyelashes fluttering until she watched his lips for a reply.

"Most valiantly," Casavir nodded with a little laugh, sounding distracted as his other arm curved around her waist, pulling her against him – there was no way back now, surely? "You always fight valiantly."

"I wish you wouldn't," Shandra murmured, so softly Isaviel barely heard it, "I mean…I wish you wouldn't…against your emotions…"

"I understand, my lady," Casavir all but grinned, "And I do not think I can fight them."

They kissed then, one brief, tentative touch of their lips, a pause, a moment to look into each other's eyes cautiously, and then they pulled each other closer, their kisses more ardent, more enduring. Isaviel turned away then, feeling a little guilty at last…and confused. How had she failed to see that coming? She felt like she should have been happier than she was, but an odd feeling twisted in her stomach, a cold stab of something unfamiliar.

She moved back through the trees, all but invisible, unseen by Khelgar or Elanee…but a hand caught her by the shoulder as she passed those others, spinning her around. She met Bishop's glare squarely, a little shaken by his success in finding her in that state of shadowy invisibility.

"See something in the woods?" he mocked, and he sneered at her when she tried to raise her eyebrows derisively, "See something that made you jealous?"

"No. But right now I'm looking at something that makes me angry," she told him coldly.

She started to move away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back, pressing her hard against the bark of a tree, just out of sight of the others, until she ducked under his arm and gave him a shove. He twisted and caught her again, his grip far too hard, and she glared up at him.

"I need to know what's happening amongst those who claim to follow me," she responded through gritted teeth, "Though their caution was painful to watch. I prefer to be certain of what I want. And I know right now that I do not want _you_."

"Hmm...want," Bishop growled, "I hope that doesn't mean you want to own me, 'captain'."

"Enough, Bishop," Isaviel snarled now, wrenching herself free as Khelgar paused on his way past, watching their interaction with a distrustful frown towards the ranger, "You know I didn't choose this."

"Oh really?" he asked mockingly, "Is that so? I reckon you decided to do your duty the moment you stepped foot in Neverwinter. You've been undermining Neeshka's guild and guilt-tripping all the rest of us into following you. Making us think you had no choice, with that shard and those torn off wings," his rage was sudden and fierce, leaning closer, "But really you just want a fancy castle and pretty dresses and a perfect knight to match your own knighthood and flock of simpering children…"

The slap she gave him rang tellingly in the silence that had fallen. Everyone was watching; not only her companions, but also several of the men who now called her 'captain', just as Bishop had said they did. That had made her angrier than she could have expected, and when Bishop looked back to her there was a thin line of blood running down his cheek. His anger seemed to have dimmed a little, if anything, but he just snarled and stalked away, pushing past a frightened soldier as he went.

* * *

They made camp in the afternoon before they were to attack, a mile down the road from the crossroads which gave the keep its name, an intersection of farmers' tracks with a longer, more established road joining the Long Road with the High Road. The keep loomed at the top of an impressive rise, built on the edge of a cliff so that only its entrance and east side were accessible. The road leading that way was poorly tended, furrowed by the carts of the farmers who had livestock grazing in the surrounding fields of the castle complex.

Isaviel had been with the scouting group who had gone up to the keep while the others made camp, and she had seen for herself the extent of the place's ruin. All four of the outer walls, once several metres thick with enough room along their ramparts for many ballistae, were mostly collapsed into moss-covered chunks of stones. Some had fallen down the cliff face and lay by the crossroads. All of the buildings in the vast bailey, whether once wooden or of stone, where rotting and crumbling, as were the roofs of the tiered sections of the keep itself, which stood on a high motte of partially natural rocky ground.

It was hard to imagine the place was of any worth to anyone, and certainly not a man as powerful as Black Garius was supposed to be. However, there were men on the ramparts at the top of the keep, others patrolling the bailey and the surrounding lands. It was those lands which gave the best proof for the wizard's presence, as well, for the small farmhouse had been torched, many cattle and sheep, as well as a pair of horses, killed on the scorched pasturelands around the keep. The body of a man, evidently running away at the time of his death, was visible where the trees began at the far side of the field.

By late afternoon the plans for assault on the castle were laid out, and Isaviel was in relieved agreement with Valarian on how things should proceed. The leader of the Many-Starred Cloaks' contingent was an experienced Elvish wizard, three centuries in the service of Neverwinter. He was thankfully attentive and dutiful thus far, though the same could not be said for many of his men, or those of the Greycloaks. Isaviel had heard them muttering behind her back, seen their distrustful glares. She wondered if all new captains faced such difficult odds amongst their own men.

Their intention was to go in through the collapsed defences on the complex's eastern side; they had some thirty foot-soldiers, a paltry five archers (augmented by Bishop, who had refused to fight with Isaviel and her companions), and ten wizards, led by Valarian. Hopefully this would be enough to quell the men Garius had guarding the outside of the keep, especially when they had been taken off-guard in the final hours of daylight. They could not afford to leave their attack until they could utilise the comforting shelter of darkness. It was then that Garius was purportedly going to carry out his ritual; the night of the month when Selune was a new moon, her Tears twinkling, lonely in the sky; thus this was the darkest night of the month before winter. They had intended to reach Crossroad Keep a whole day earlier, but the weather had denied them. As if to prove that point, the winds buffeted them with unfamiliar strength as they approached, keeping hidden within the curve of the trees, the gusts howling over the flat plains of abandoned farmland.

It was understood that Isaviel and her companions needed to be able to get to the basement, where Garius was expected to be about to carry out the ritual. The only way to do that would be to break into the main keep itself, as the underground levels of the complex had once served as dungeons as well; as such there would be no other way in but the most defensible. They were fortunate the place was as ruined as it was.

With any luck Aldanon would be inside as well, and preferably unharmed and alive. Isaviel suspected that without him they would not be able to learn more of the shards, nor would they have a chance of getting to Ammon Jerro's Haven which they all hoped would answer her questions. The Githyanki had seemed interested enough to look for it.

Elanee's preference for fighting in the form of a bear meant that she, as well as Bishop, would not be accompanying Isaviel to directly attack Black Garius. That left the Moon Elf with Shandra, Casavir, Neeshka, Khelgar, Qara and Sand, with Grobnar still injured and recovering at The Sunken Flagon. Thus it was that as one the company of soldiers and adventurers fell upon the wizards and guards patrolling Crossroad Keep's bailey and outer environs. The fighting took longer than Isaviel had hoped, and she was increasingly aware of the setting of the sun when at last the ring of steel, the blast of spells and the shouts of combat died down. The Neverwinter soldiers had been lucky to take only three serious casualties, and thus far had received no deaths. The same could not be said for the Luskan guards.

It took some significant effort to break through the enormous half-moon shaped doors as well, and when at last their great metal lock broke and they swung wide, their wood was revealed to be almost a foot thick. It had taken a blast of magical energy from Qara to propel them into such free movement, and within the wizards had readied themselves, using fallen chairs and other mouldering items of furniture as barriers for the long-range attacks of their foes. There were far more of them than anyone had expected, perhaps twenty amassed but cowering in the great entrance hall, so dingy, smelling of age and rot – but also gusty from the absolute lack of a roof.

Several armed Luskan guards stood between the wizards and the Neverwinter contingent, and the Greycloaks rushed ahead of the others to immediately engage in vicious battle with them. Isaviel and those companions she had with her would need to get through the large set of doors over to the left, beside which part of the wall had fallen in to reveal an enormous but decrepit banquet hall. Ahead of this a number of black-robed wizards bearing an unfamiliar white sunburst symbol on their shoulders were deep in the throes of spellcasting, hands forming arcane gestures, many with their eyes closed as they spoke their incantations. A huge amount of magical power was growing in the room, and Isaviel held Shandra back when she stepped forward, sword drawn, as if to try to charge on their pre-planned route. First they would have to withstand the blast that was to come – and Isaviel prayed that the building could do the same.

Qara stepped forward, wreathed in flame, a wickedly gleeful expression on her face as she was the first to allow her spells to tear through the dingy room. Darts of fire arched over the Greycloaks grappling with the Luskan guards, and Qara laughed in delight when all three of the wizards up on the rickety balcony across the room caught fire, shrieking. Her sorcerer's skills appeared to give her the offensive advantage, perhaps a little too much of it, for that ancient wooden balcony had set alight as well, lighting up the whole room. It did not distract the Luskan wizards below it – or the seven or so others scattered about the room behind upended benches and tables; as one their magic ripped through the gusty air, sending all of the martial fighters scattering for cover. One Neverwinter man lost his footing and had his life quickly ended by cold Luskan steel.

Isaviel, Shandra and Casavir all dived for cover as well – Neeshka had surreptitiously slipped through the gap into the derelict banquet hall, and the Moon Elf had noticed her breaking through the doors there into the corridor beyond. A smile crept onto her face at that, if only briefly, for the rubble behind which she and her friends hid was shaken quite forcibly by a great blast of white magical energy. A glance over at the Many-Starred Cloaks, all lined up by the front entrance, showed to Isaviel that the man at each end of that group stood with eyes closed in deep concentration, arms stretched out. From their fingertips rippled a fine wall of fizzling energy, forming a barrier against which multiple blasts of magical missiles and fireballs hissed and died. Behind it the other Neverwinter wizards, Sand among them standing by Valarian's side, were at liberty to send forth their own magics.

At last the door which was their goal opened just a little, and through it stepped the tall, lithe figure of Neeshka to deal swift death to the three Luskan wizards in Isaviel's way. The man at the centre was pulled back suddenly, her tail wrapped around his neck, choking him, and the others met with her daggers before they could respond.

"Now!" Isaviel hissed.

She pushed Shandra forward and raced past her into the fray. Forced to dive, and arc to avoid the spellblasts; she heard her friend gasp behind her as the failed lunge of one man sent her into a forward roll, her momentum allowing her to jump to her feet immediately. Once she was standing, just metres from the opening Neeshka had forged, that man was on his knees, already dead, and her shuriken were returning to her grasp. When one more Luskan man stepped into her way, his sword raised to kill one of the Greycloaks, she only sped up her run, daring to lunge under his strike where his prey had not, and killed him too. She did not pause to hear the Neverwinter man's thanks…in fact she preferred not to.

"You did well," Isaviel told Neeshka as she reached the Tiefling, Shandra and Casavir not far behind.

With the battle still raging behind them in the main hall, spells roaring and swords clanging, men shouting, screaming and dying, the group of four slipped unnoticed into the darkness of the corridor beyond – the first roofed section of the keep which they had entered so far. Isaviel could see the thick cobwebs woven all across the bowed, years-old attempt to patch the roof with wooden beams. A moth eaten tapestry hung half-torn away from the wall by the door to the banquet hall which Neeshka had left ajar, and a broad stone corridor, bare of any life or light or sound curved around into the gloom.

"So that's the way down then?" Shandra hissed once Casavir had raised his hammer again and they pushed the door to behind them, pointing at the stone steps graven into the floor, a broken banister along the floor beside them, leading down to a forbidding iron door.

"That's the one," Isaviel agreed, glancing at the padlock lying open on the floor by the handle and looking incredulously over at Neeshka as the four approached, "Surely Black Garius is not so lax?"

"Apparently he is," the Tiefling shrugged, grinning as she pushed open the door into the thick darkness beyond, "I had a quick look and everything's just like the plans Valarian showed us."

She was right, just as Valarian had been. With Neeshka and Isaviel scouting ahead, silent and invisible in the gloom, they stepped through the doors onto a set of twisting stone stairs. Kicking up dust, they descended past the first floor down, the one they knew to be the pantry and storehouses for winter, then the next, a far more impressive door covered in locks and bolts on the outside; the dungeon. At this point the stairs changed, becoming a tight spiral set of uneven wooden steps without a banister but rather furnished only with a fraying rope to aid one's balance. The further they travelled, wishing Shandra and Casavir were not so heavy-footed behind them, wincing at the occasional shriek of armour plating against stone, the more it hurt.

As Isaviel stepped onto the floor of a broad room she saw a flash of green light ahead through the door in the far wall, and it was as if a dagger was pressed and twisted against her scar, as if the shard in her chest twisted and pushed against her skin. Gasping, she stumbled against the old table by the wall and Neeshka looked back at her anxiously, coming over to touch her shoulder, eyes flashing pink in the darkness. Pausing to catch her breath, Isaviel breathed deeply, closing her eyes, trying to find the peace Merring had taught her, and felt Neeshka draw her hand away sharply. Yes, she was a shadow now, thin and transparent, barely there at all. She felt safer, calmer, colder…and ready to do battle once more. A grin spread across her face as she watched Shandra and Casavir join them, silently surprised by her own confidence, nodding to Neeshka as she stood straight from the table – which looked rather like Sand's alchemist's workshop, with all those empty bottles…

The flashes from the door ahead were growing brighter, and as the Tiefling and Moon Elf approached on silent feet, gesturing for the others to wait a little way back, they heard strange chanting rising and falling. The words were not familiar, in no language Isaviel had ever heard before, and looking through the small section of grating in the door she saw it all…and at last she beheld Black Garius, the man who had ordered Moire to kill her in the name of the shadows.

* * *

It was time. Garius had donned only his typical black robes, although pointedly without the additional white velvet sunburst on one shoulder. He was not one for showier displays than necessary, and this was proving to be quite the spectacle already. The two shards he had managed to acquire before the Elf or the warlock were just enough for this, and they lay, glinting silver and beautiful on a waist-high pedestal of obsidian at the centre of the ring. There were eight points to the star-shape they had been required to carve into the stone ground – quite an arduous feat, which he was glad he had only needed to watch – at each of which stood one of his best wizards. He clutched the Tome of Iltkazar eagerly as he positioned himself before the pedestal, turning around to look pointedly at each of the men sharing this space with him. He did not need to be a being transcendent of the King of Shadows to kill them all together, and they knew that well.

They – and he – all knew what they had to do. The braziers at each corner of this large circular chamber had all been lit, and the flames burned green from the appropriate mixture of components; they stank, but any time practicing the necromantic arts meant one smelt far worse. And Garius was a master. He could not contain a slight smirk at the thought, feeling the rough surface of the tome, his prize key to immortality. Aldanon, the innocent idiot-savant, had suggested lichdom instead, but in his new form, the one he would take tonight, the greatest liches, even Szass Tam himself, would weep at his feet sooner than test his powers.

"The chamber is ready?" Garius inquired imperiously, and his acolytes responded with eager nods, their eyes telling of great fear, however, "And where are the shadow priests?"

"They took their leave, Master," one man offered, none of them daring to move from their spaces on the star – that was good, even if their news was not, "Once they were done preparing the chamber for the ritual."

That was…odd. They could have simply abandoned him beforehand, leaving him without the necessary power. Perhaps, he mused, they had been too afraid of his already potent wrath to dare refuse his command, even if they were now running back to their King of Shadows. His rage was a cold, heartless thing, and it shone in his eyes, sending the speaker cowering half a step off his line.

"Deal with them when we are done here. After this night, we shall have no more need for them…or their 'King of Shadows'."

"It shall be as you command, Lord Garius."

"Then let us begin the ritual," a shiver of fear ran through the last vestiges of his heart, "We wouldn't want to keep Neverwinter waiting."

His smile was crueller than a sneer, but there was no turning back now…nor did he wish to. The chant began immediately, and he joined in with more fervour than all the rest, already feeling a surge of power; a shift of the thickening darkness. Vaguely he was aware of the shards on the pedestal beginning to glow and glitter, of the tome hot in his hands. The words written on those ancient vellum pages swirled and mingled before his eyes until their power was flowing through him and he no longer needed to say the words; he no longer needed to lead the chant.

The green flames in the brazier guttered out, and the only light left in the chamber was that coming from the runes graven on the ground and the star shape which they formed. Somehow they only served to deepen the shadows, and the darker the room became the stronger Garius felt. The acolytes around him were being taken over by the dark magic now, some shrieking, some collapsing to their knees, but all were chanting, and though the pain only grew worse for them, they could not stop.

When a few more shrieks came and ended just quickly, that was why Garius thought nothing of it. He did not see any longer, for the power was too great, black magic pouring into him and clouding his vision. He could not see until too late, when the power was destabilised, the darkness continued to pour from the book, into him, and his eyes flew open, looking about wildly. This was wrong; there was no _balance_. Then he saw the fallen acolytes, dying in pools of their own blood, stabbed, their chants ended. Five acolytes remained, oblivious to the doom that was creeping through the darkness towards them, silent and unseen. Garius could not stop them, he was immobilised by the dark power tearing at his soul.

It was the first time he saw her, and he feared it would be the last; the Elvish girl, the one he had tried so hard to kill. She did not fear the shadows as Garius thought she should, as Garius _knew_ she should. Instead she used them, and so did her friends. He could make none of them out, though he could sense that paladin's wretched aura, choking him even as the dark powers killed the wizard of the Fifth Tower. The human woman was blundering in the dark, and he could see the flash of pink of the demongirl's eyes. But only briefly as the power grew and Garius's own body began to glow white did he see her eyes, grey mists swirling at their heart. When she looked upon him, her expression was cruel and satisfied, and her eyes changed, glowing deep red…and he understood.

"W-what have you done to me?" Garius roared in pain, and as he spoke the white light poured from him.

A great humming grew in his ears, and his few remaining acolytes shrieked with him, all of them bleeding light, until with an explosion of magic the room lit up brightly, a few ancient stones shaking loose, and all of the power came crashing back into Garius. Death came.

* * *

Isaviel and her companions understood once they had killed only a few of the crazed acolytes that Garius's plan was ended. The powerful magic swirling around the wizard at the centre of the circle was too great to dare get close to him, but it soon became too great for him as well. It was not clear what killed him, for when he fell there was not a mark on his body. The light that had grown within him had all fled his body, and that seemed to bring about his death. His acolytes suffered worse fates, bursting briefly into flame and shrieking horribly.

Once they were all dead, the fires in the braziers – and that of Casavir's torch – all roared to life again, far greater than before, bathing the circular spell chamber in orange light. Isaviel and her friends looked at each other in silent, fearful awe for a few moments before the Moon Elf dared to step over the white-hot runes. Casavir caught at her arm, trying to stop her, but she shrugged him off and continued to advance on the two silver shards, glittering like false gold in the firelight. She stepped unconcernedly over Garius's body to reach them, feeling their powerful pull from the scar on her chest. When she touched them they sparked momentarily with magic but she did not pull back, lifting them with both hands to peer at them wordlessly, not listening to her friends' warnings. One was as big as her palm, the other perhaps half that size.

"My lady, please. It might not be safe…" Casavir was saying, but then she saw the tome still clutched in Garius's cold hands.

The book lay open, its strangely thick pages charred at the corners but black words, written in a small but spidery hand, were still clear – although not legible to Isaviel, for she could not understand the language. It was heavy, its cover rough when she picked it up too, and felt not even the faintest hint of remaining magic on its surface. Looking back around and moving over to her friends, who were waiting at the door, she smiled a little at their gawping faces. Black Garius was dead. One down…how many to go?


	24. An Unlikely Servant of Law

**Many thanks to those of you who've read this far; and you who've favourited/followed! It's turning out to be a long story, so your tenacity means lots and lots :P  
There's some more character devlopment here, including some of the cut content from the game (Casavir's backstory...).  
Reviews/feedback are greatly welcome - I shall endeavour to be speedy in my responses :)**

* * *

Valarian and his men had prevailed in the end, although it had not been an easy battle. They had found Aldanon and his mysterious companion locked in an old officers' room high up on the north-west tower of the keep. The old man rode freely with the company, chattering to Sand or Valarian, or anyone who would listen, about all of the magical knowledge he had gained under Black Garius's 'patronage' as he saw it. His fellow prisoner had not been treated so freely. Isaviel had seen only the faintest hint of a tall, thin form, shrouded in a long grey cloak, being led into the carriage they had reserved for any prisoners they might take. There were no Luskans to share her new prison, and that was telling of the difficult conflict.

Before the Neverwintans had left for home, only a few hours before the first winter snows had begun to fall, they had built a great pyre and burned all of the bodies of the dead Luskans together, fearing any necromantic magic that surviving wizards affiliated with Garius might know. Their own dead they dealt with more respectfully – or so they claimed, though Isaviel saw no more honour in it – carting them back to Neverwinter to be dealt with by the temples of Tyr or Lathander.

Qara and Sand had fought without injury in the battle, and they both seemed to give each other an even wider birth than before. They had never spoken much, though Sand had often professed a certain disdain for the sorcerer. Now they seemed wary of each other, if not respectful of each other's power. They had seen each other fight for the first time, and whatever they had seen had given them pause.

Casavir and Shandra rode together on the journey back to Neverwinter, and seemed so caught up in each other that they barely spoke to the others; that gave Neeshka no end of entertainment, and her jokes became more irreverent daily. She and Isaviel at last spent some time with each other, and the Moon Elf had all but forgotten how much she enjoyed the Tiefling's company, and the same could be said for Khelgar. The Tiefling and the Dwarf had developed a strange kind of companionable depreciation of each other, and their banter made her laugh when she had feared so greatly over the past few days. The Dwarf was sporting all sorts of injuries and cuts from his time fighting in the courtyard, but he still managed to remain cheerful – even if he did resent riding a horse. The pair made her happy, and she was glad to have some time to laugh with them.

The same could not be said for Elanee, whose dislike of the Tiefling was unendingly evident; she would barely acknowledge her presence, and when she did there was loathing in her voice. Worse than that, for the whole journey back to Neverwinter the druid had complained about Isaviel's choice to give the Tome of Iltkazar to Aldanon for perusal. 'It is polluting the air we breathe; we should have burned it'. She would not stop, nor would she cease her insistence that they travel to the Circle of the Mere, to consult her Elders.

Isaviel paid her no heed regarding this either; Elanee was little more than a child, a human of not even twenty years. She had been sent as a watcher by those Elders, and Isaviel feared she knew more than she was giving away. She would not listen to the advice of people such as those – not unless there was no other way, and currently she was too relieved to have defeated Black Garius and his minions, right in the throes of their maleficent ritual. The King of Shadows must surely have been weakened by the loss of such a powerful servant – and by the success of the Neverwintans at Crossroad Keep against his other acolytes. He was clearly waiting, and he could definitely wait a little longer. They needed to regroup, rest, and find a path to Haven at long last. She had enough shards now to make a longsword, if not the original greatsword. Or perhaps two new kukris. All she needed was more information; where had it come from, what was it used for, who had wielded it, how could it be re-forged?

All of these things were easily enough to ponder on the three-day long slog back to Neverwinter; although the snows soon ended, and the clouds retreated to reveal an icy blue sky, the ground was still a foot of – now half-frozen – mud. The carts moved even slower than before, and Isaviel and her companions had to stay with Valarian and his amalgamation of remaining Greycloaks and Many-Starred Cloaks in case of further attack.

Bishop ignored Isaviel just as zealously as he had before, riding apart from everyone, hunting for himself, making his own camp. Karnwyr was not with him – though the wolf had healed from its wounds, it had remained at The Sunken Flagon. For some reason Duncan had not even questioned his duty to look after it. Meanwhile, the ranger's attitude angered Isaviel more and more. They had not spoken of feelings, they had never claimed to care for each other, but they had spent a great deal of time together until recently. They had trained together, hunted together, fought together, worked together, _slept_ together. He had called to her when she was in danger, he had tried to save her when he would have abandoned all the others, and he had stayed with her throughout the night when she had endured the poisonous wound dealt her by Qaggoth-Yeg.

She often found herself staring over at the fire of his camp, a few metres away from that of her friends, and she caught the glint of his eyes in the darkness when he watched her, thinking she was not looking. She guiltily dreamed that he crept to her bedroll in the night; that he stayed with her…but it did not happen. He did not even return to The Sunken Flagon with them. The tavern was unusually full of people, hot and crowded with not a spare seat when the ranger returned, bringing with him a much-needed blast of cold air. He jostled his way through the crowds, looking murderous when one drunken man all but collapsed onto him, and went straight through the door to the living quarters. Karnwyr leapt to his feet and followed; Isaviel heard the wolf running up the stairs.

Most of the others were as drunk as the patrons, as well as full of Sal's generously served food; talking, joking, laughing in relief with Duncan. Isaviel's uncle had welcomed them heartily in spite of the busy state of the tavern, although eventually they had made their way to the back room and he had brought them a keg of ale with which to celebrate their victories.

Grobnar was healthy enough to join them there, and several of the others had gathered around him. The Gnome looked cheerful but tired, and a little bemused, propped up along one of the benches by the wall near the fire, watching his increasingly drunken companions with wide eyes while they had originally been telling him about their exploits at Crossroad Keep. It would appear that his absence, and his injury, had given them a reason to pay him heed where few had before.

The longer they had talked, the more they had drunk, and somehow the stories of all the exploits Grobnar had missed out on had descended into Khelgar's tales of bar brawls.

"So then I punched 'im for askin'," the Dwarf was explaining – it seemed to be some punch-line of a joke, as well, for the others burst out into laughter, "And while he was pickin' his teeth off the floor, his friend decided to add a few choice words about my heritage…so I punched him, too."

Isaviel had not been listening, spinning her ale around in her hands and staring into the fire, leaning forward in her chair, deep in thought. They had been given this day off before she would need to go to Brelaina's office. It would feel rather strange dealing with the woman now they held the same rank, but it was there that the unknown prisoner was being held; everything had been very mysterious in that regard so far, and it made her uncomfortable. Nasher and his cronies already knew too much for her liking about the shards, the King of Shadows, and about her. She could not help but wonder how that was possible, but it made her anxious that they were keeping a great deal of information from her, which could be the difference between living and dying. The Githyanki might have vowed to torment her no more, and Garius may have been dead, but there were still answers she needed about the shards, and there was the promise of the return of the King of Shadows.

The plants were dying too soon, and there were reports of polluted waters in the outlying farms, particularly those closer to the Mere, from where nothing had been heard for many weeks. When she became one with the shadows she had felt a change as well, not just when she had been in the room with Garius casting his spells, but before on the road. She could feel them pushing against her, as though she were wading through water where once she had been drifting through air. Elanee had at least been right about the King of Shadows, it would seem.

The druid seemed happier now, at least for the time being. Casavir, Shandra and Grobnar were always kind to her, and Khelgar had pressed enough flagons of ale into her hands that she was giggling along to all of the Dwarf's ridiculous tales. They had all relaxed with such ease, ready to party and celebrate a reprieve in their several days of threat. Even Casavir had been drinking, and Isaviel could see Shandra's hand lightly resting on his leg under the table. Over time, his arm had found its way around her shoulders as well, and they glowed with happiness. Neeshka was very drunk, something she seemed to be very good at, and was leaning heavily on the table, her tail swaying slowly over the back of her chair. Even in her inebriation she had noted Isaviel's absence, but her uncoordinated attempts to wave the Moon Elf over had failed utterly.

Qara was working in the kitchens with Sal, to her everlasting indignation, and Sand had not made an appearance yet. He had spoken briefly with Isaviel about what Qaggoth-Yeg had said to her, for it had unsettled them both. He could not give her any clues about what those words had meant, but he had said that Daeghun probably could, so he had returned to his house to try to contact Tarmas one more time before he joined the rest of them. It had been over an hour, and he had not returned.

"Right, so we've got enough money between us t' afford one. This pay thing is pretty good, if ye ask me," Khelgar was announcing rather loudly, slamming his big hairy fist down on the table to emphasise his point.

"Who's going to get some? There's no way I'm walking all that way after that much ale," Shandra proclaimed just as loudly, though her speech was notably not so impeded as the Dwarf's.

"Why don't you get you're knight in shining armour to do it for you?" Neeshka slurred, "It'll give me a rest from that horrible aura."

"I would offer, but I fear I am somewhat….incapacitated," Grobnar piped in, and suddenly Elanee stood without a word and left the room. Isaviel heard a muffled sob before the druid was through the door and out of earshot.

"Wow, what's with her?" Neeshka asked with a derisive grunt, "Spoken too much fairy-talk for one day?"

"Oh dear, do not be so cruel to Lady Elanee!" Grobnar demanded in uncharacteristic indignation, to the appreciative nod of Casavir. Neeshka just grunted derisively.

"I think ye should go for us, Casavir. I think yer the only one o' us who can walk in a straight line, truth be told," Khelgar admitted, to the sniggers of Neeshka.

"I…perhaps someone…the Moonstone Mask's wines may be fine but…" the paladin floundered momentarily, flushing a deep pink to his roots, which made Shandra laugh heartily.

"Even I've heard the tales of the Moonstone Mask's past," the woman agreed, patting his shoulder, "But I've also heard that it's rather different now. A little good wine to go with all this ale and I think our celebrations are complete."

"As…as you will," Casavir nodded, standing, still looking rather flustered.

"I'll come with you," Isaviel threw in now, watching the paladin curiously, and he blanched even more, but did not disagree, nodding rather stiffly.

"Of…course, my lady…captain…Isaviel," he reddened further, which made the Moon Elf laugh.

"Look after him," Shandra grinned over at Isaviel, shaking her head in disbelief, "I think he might faint if he gets too close to the Mask."

* * *

The early evening was very cold, the sky purple and pink against the Sea of Swords, though lasting snows would not find Neverwinter; they never did. Nor did the water freeze in the bay, though all the lands further north were reportedly now struggling with far worse conditions. The docks did not smell so bad in the colder weather, but they were no less crowded and their many taverns were no less rowdy. The Merchant Quarter was far quieter, with a population wealthy enough to possess luxury allowing them to stay indoors against the cold.

As they neared Blacklake, Casavir still had not spoken, his eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead of him, as if the goal to buy expensive wine for their friends was of the utmost importance. Isaviel recognised his discomfort; she had seen how unwilling he was to go, and how little he wanted her with him when he found he had no viable excuses. This was more than just embarrassment of the Moonstone Mask's former status as a brothel, there was something far more interesting going on. Isaviel was determined to find out somehow.

"You and Shandra get on very well," she offered by way of breaking the silence, and at last Casavir glanced at her, evident surprise in his eyes.

"Yes. She is kind and noble of heart."

"You love her?"

"I…" the paladin looked taken aback by Isaviel's forwardness, "I…would die for her," he managed at last.

The idea was alien to the Moon Elf and it gave her pause. It made her wonder at why she had been so determined to save Shandra, Khelgar and Grobnar – it also reminded her of how determined Bishop had been to stop her. It was her turn to look away uncomfortably, wishing she had the nerve to apologise for her bluntness. She and Casavir had never said a comfortable word to each other that she could recall, except when talking of battle.

"You are surprised by my words," Casavir noted as they were waved through the gates into the Blacklake, oddly gloomy and rendered an eeriness to go with its silence.

"I am," Isaviel admitted, "I see that she admires you greatly. Enough that she did not recognise why you reacted as you did to mention of the Moonstone Mask."

"Ah," the paladin straightened his stance even more, turning the next corner rather sharply, "I must say I was relieved by that, my lady, although I believe you have misunderstood."

"Oh really? I never took you for a brothel-goer," Isaviel teased, swiping at his arm, "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not so sordid as all that. I never thought for a second that you were thinking the owner might recognise you as a patron. Is it the place? Or is it some_one_?"

"Both," Casavir admitted uncomfortably, offering little more information, "And neither. It is a great shame of mine, my lady…"

"_Isaviel_," the Moon Elf corrected pointedly, and he just nodded once.

They spoke no more until they reached the large, ornate building which was their goal, its painted walls covered in autumn-killed, winter-frosted ivy. The walls were high around the Moonstone Mask, an archway opening the way to a long, broad path flanked with an expansive garden dotted with chairs and benches. No one was sitting outside in this weather, where the earth was mud and all seats were covered in puddles of water liable to freeze overnight.

The doors opened as they approached, bathing the night-time world with bright golden light and a wash of heat. The Moonstone Mask was evidently very busy, and there were lights flickering at windows on all three floors, the tavern hall already audibly rowdy. A woman of questionable years stood holding the doors for them; though her ornately coiffed hair was a deep black, her figure was tending towards plumpness and there were lines around her genial eyes. The startlingly low-cut blue velvet gown she wore, embroidered at all seams, made Isaviel feel remarkably under-dressed in her plain black tunic and leggings, her walking boots just as muddy as ever. Casavir did not have that problem, for his white tunic sported the patterned stitching of understated nobility.

"Ah, welcome be to both of you," the woman smiled; when she gestured inside, the necklace at her throat caught the light, and Isaviel saw that its pendant was a large many-faceted stone carved into the form of a mask. That would be the moonstone, then.

"We would like to buy a bottle of wine only," Isaviel explained at the door when the woman raised an eyebrow at her attire, and Casavir utterly failed to say anything, remaining a little outside.

"Of course," the woman took the pouch of gold she offered, her eyes lingering on the Moon Elf's face for a few moments, "Wait here, please."

As the woman passed through the busy tavern, smiling and talking briefly with a number of the very well-dressed patrons, Casavir let out a long breath – as if he had been holding it – and wiped a hand across his forehead. Isaviel watched him with incredulity, but he rather pointedly did not meet her eyes. Only once the woman had returned and handed Isaviel the bottle of wine did she look to Casavir, and when she did her carefully schooled expression fell suddenly. She grew pale, and then flushed, stepping outside and closing the door after herself once Isaviel followed.

"Casavir?" she hissed, "After all these years?"

"Ophala, I…"

"Thought I would hit you and tell you I hated you?" the woman scoffed, "I have had many lovers since you – I had as many more before you…though it is true that I foolishly loved your youthful charm."

"My lady…I should not have come regardless…"

"But you could not find a good enough excuse to avoid it when your lovely friend here bade you accompany her?" Ophala's smile was tight when she glanced once more towards Isaviel, "You always were too gallant. She doesn't really seem your type though – I've heard Isaviel Farlong has quite the wicked streak. What in all the hells has she been teaching you?"

"Ophala! You misunderstand…"

"I know full well what she means to you, Casavir. I know everything about everyone at all times; I know when you are in the city and when you are not, do not doubt that. Now leave me be. Have the sense not to return – your abandonment of me for a life of servitude was most…insulting."

She gave him no more chance to speak, stepping back into the tavern and letting the door fall shut with a clang behind her. Casavir turned immediately and began to stride away down the path, Isaviel following quickly on his heels.

"What was that about? Isn't she a little too old for you?"

"Fifteen years ago you would not have queried it. She was – and is – a beautiful…and forceful woman," Casavir paused as they reached the street, looking upon Isaviel with something like resignation, "I wish I could keep this a secret from you, but it would seem that you have heard too much to achieve that."

"You're definitely right about that."

"Very well," the paladin sighed as they began the walk back, the Moon Elf unconcernedly swinging the bottle of wine by her side, "Fifteen years ago I was indeed a lover of Ophala Cheldarstorm, who is now the owner of the Moonstone Mask…"

"Hang on…was she the owner of the brothel as well?"

"Yes," the paladin blanched, "Some time after I knew her. But the paladin's profession called to me more strongly than did my love for her…and when I was required to by the law, I was forced to kill the man who was trying to win her affections from me. In my shame I fled the city and for a time fought with the Greycloaks near Triboar, but increasingly their bureaucracy angered me and I learned that my aim was not to fight for a city, but to fight for the people within it. That is why I was in the mountains near Old Owl Well when you met me."

"And I take it that you want me to make sure Shandra never finds out about this? You think something like that will make her cease to love you?" Isaviel smirked when Casavir failed to respond, "She doesn't strike me as the type."

"I believe telling any new love of a past lover is bound to cause a problem, Isaviel," Casavir told her with only the slightest hint of humour, "If you were forced to tell Bishop of anyone you may have once loved, how would he react? How would you react if he told you something similar? "

"I…" suddenly words failed the Moon Elf, though she preferred not to think on it, and they walked on in silence.

* * *

The others had been highly grateful for their far-ranging efforts, though also far too drunk to drink the entire bottle of wine. Shandra and Casavir had retreated into a corner, whispering together and laughing quietly at intervals; Isaviel had quickly ceased to pay them any heed. Neeshka and Khelgar had passed out on the table rather quickly, and though Duncan had permitted Qara to have a glass of that most expensive wine, she had soon been called back to the kitchens. Grobnar had declined any, though he had also given a little money towards it, and Elanee was not in her room. Thus it had fallen to Isaviel to drink the rest, and she did so straight from the bottle until the room was spinning a little and she could half-believe that there was no King of Shadows and there never had been any Black Garius.

The Moon Elf was heading for her room when Bishop caught her, the ranger just coming in through the back door. She moved past him, reaching for the handle of her door, but his hand closed around her wrist, and she was immobilised by the feel of his body against her back, his breath hot on her neck. Glancing around at him, it was suddenly very hard to be angry with him, and instead she found herself twisting around to face him, her finger tracing the cut her nail had made against the bruise on his cheek. In wordless response he backed her up against the door, kissing her shoulder, her neck, pulling the wine bottle from her hand. He kissed her cheek as well, until his lips found hers, lingering, his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer.

"Mmmm, that wine tastes good," Bishop grinned, pulling her towards him as he took a long swig from the bottle, then resting his chin on the top of her head as he spoke again, "I could get drunk just from kissing you, but the wine helps, too."

Isaviel was about to speak, to demand an explanation for his change of attitude, but she saw something in his eyes when she looked up and it made her pause. Whatever it was, it made her heart race, and they pulled each other closer at the same time. She found herself clinging to him far tighter than she had intended, revelling in the warm weight of his arms; one around her waist, the other across her back.

She smiled against him as he took her hand, leading her up the winding wooden staircase nearby, the one that led to his attic room. The door was already ajar when he reached it, shouldering through and then kicking it closed behind them, pushing her back onto the bed; just a mattress. Here the roof sloped on both sides, coming to a point above them, and there were few possessions visible. At some point he had brought the wine bottle up with them, and now he was drinking from it as she watched, propped up on her elbows.

"What happened to all that rage?" Isaviel asked teasingly, and Bishop looked over at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe I wanted to persuade you out of your virtuous captaincy," Bishop suggested after downing the wine at last, looking her up and down, "Or maybe I just like how you look when I kiss you."

Something about the way he said those words made her bite her lip and glance away from his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable. Her heart was still racing, and when he moved up the bed above her to kiss her as he had promised it was a long, slow kiss, full of feeling. As he pulled away a little there was vulnerability in his eyes, and she knew there was in hers too.

"I will kill you if you betray me," she snarled and he laughed softly, pressing his forehead against hers.

"I'd expect nothing less."

* * *

In the darkness when she woke, she knew he could not see her clearly, though he had already opened his eyes. With both of them void of weapons he seemed no more vulnerable – she certainly was not – but he seemed less able to hide the emotions in his voice and in his eyes. Their limbs were tangled, her hair spread over his shoulder and down his arm, his lips warm and soft, moving slowly over hers now. When she whispered his name, he whispered hers in answer. Everything was slow and strange, not the way it had been before. When she nuzzled against his chest he put an arm around her shoulders, rolling onto his back. They had made peace, and in this one moment, perhaps never again, they had found their own emotional peace as well.

Muffled voices sounded on the floor below them, and that stirred them from their half-awake trance. Isaviel sat up suddenly, automatically wrapping her hair into a bun and pulling her clothes on, kicking the empty wine bottle Bishop had brought up with them out of the way and pulling wide the door, looking back at the ranger with a smirk.

"Get up, Bishop. I have to go to see whoever Brelaina has with her at the office, and you're not lounging there while I have to suffer that."

"Oh, of course captain. Whatever you say, captain," he rolled his eyes, sitting up at his own speed, ducking when she threw one of his boots at him.

Becoming a shadow to avoid her bumbling awakening companions in the corridor below, all aiming to be first in the washroom Sal had undoubtedly made ready for them, Isaviel snuck back to her room, gathered up a fur-trimmed grey tunic and a pair of black leggings, and beat the others to the baths. That meant she and Shandra were the first ready to go to Brelaina's office, breakfasting on fresh bread, toasted over a fire with butter and drinking water flavoured with berries of the Neverwinter Wood.

"You and Bishop made up, didn't you?" Shandra noted, "Unless something else is making you look like that."

"What?" the Moon Elf looked up at her, startled, seeing the woman's smirk, but Shandra was shaking her head with a laugh.

"Honestly, I don't know how you can stand him. He's so…angry all the time. And so cruel to everyone but you," the woman added.

All Isaviel could think of was how he had tried to pull her away from Qaggoth-Yeg, how he had kissed her that morning, the look in his eyes… She could not remember when it was that she had started to like his anger and his sarcasm, and the way he moved and talked, and fought…but she remained silent, looking towards Duncan instead, and blanching when she saw what he carried towards her.

"What in all the Hells is that?" she demanded furiously.

She did not move even slightly to take the cloth tabard he held out towards her. It was deep crimson, and when he waved it at her with a laugh at her expression, holding it by the shoulders, she could see the Neverwinter eye symbol and its three tears. That was the garb of a captain; a joint position transferable between the Watch and the Greycloaks.

"Tell me I don't have to wear that."

"Ye do, lass," Duncan was grinning at her with rather evident enjoyment of her indignation, "And ye have to wear it wi' pride."

"I will not," she denied after swearing at him rather violently, just as Casavir entered the room and sent her a disapproving frown.

"I think ye have to, lass," Duncan told her as she rather tentatively took hold of the smooth fabric.

"Who brought this to you?"

"Sir Nevalle did, while ye were away. I thought I'd leave the shock 'til after ye'd had a little time to celebrate first. But now ye've got to, lest Nasher think ye're refusing yer duties. Marshal Cormick has a few things to break to ye on that score, though he won't say what. Sand should be here shortly, and once the others are ready, I believe Brelaina will be expecting ye."

Khelgar grinned broadly and Qara snorted in derision when they saw Isaviel buckling her belt around the tabard, feeling ridiculous, and when Bishop joined them he laughed heartily at the sight of her dressed so dutifully. She swore at him, which made him laugh harder. Once Sand joined them, and she looked over at the wizard's serious expression, her rage died, and the others' jokes became insignificant.

"You have heard no more from West Harbour," she stated, and Sand shook his head.

"Tarmas and Daeghun've always been tough, Sand," Duncan's voice sounded strained, "If they're not answerin' yer spells that probably means they're _more_ alive than otherwise…"

"Drunken old fool," Qara sniffed derisively, ignoring the several pairs of glaring eyes that turned her way.

Isaviel ignored all of this quite deliberately, shrugging on the pack for the shards and fastening her cloak. When she headed for the door, those among her friends who were also Watch members followed, leaving Duncan to worry about his brother with only Sal, Bishop, Qara and Grobnar for company. Outside the roofs were frosted and the air showed them their breaths as puffs of white. The Moon Elf was suddenly aware of having missed the beginning of winter. Somehow, amongst the fights, injuries, and more fights, the seasons had changed, and the cold had left its icy imprint on the land.

Snow brushed against her cheek, and she looked up at the pale white sky to see more flakes following, drifting through the air all about her company – not one flake would remain a moment on Neverwinter ground, thanks to the warm waters flowing through the city from the Crags, lending it its name. But even without the snow undoubtedly deepening outside the city walls there was no doubt they were very much a part of the Frozen North. But so was she, and so were her companions.

Isaviel set a brisk pace through the Docks, and they came to Brelaina's office at the Watch Headquarters only a relatively short time later. She was waiting for the Moon Elf, that much had been correct, and with her was Aldanon. The Watch captain looked politely bored, an emotion evidently merging with frustration and annoyance. She stood swiftly when Isaviel entered with Casavir, Shandra and Khelgar, the only members of her group who were technically also members of the Watch, Sand at their heels.

"Captain," the word fell from Brelaina's tongue with deceptive ease; her eyes were cold and distrustful, however, "I am glad you have come. Our latest prisoner has been asking for you by name, and since Lord Aldanon here cannot inform me whether or not she is dangerous, I have taken the liberty of waiting for you."

"I'm sorry I could not be have been of more help," Aldanon nodded, his eyes wide and honest, his white tufts of hair even wilder than usual about his lined face, "My thinking is that as a Githzerai she may well be somewhat inclined to help – well met to you, Isaviel, by the way. You seem to be everywhere," he gave her an absent-minded nod before continuing, "You see, her people were once one with the Githyanki, but they have been separated for millennia and follow a different…code of conduct. It is common knowledge. I would expect that, as Isaviel here is hunted by Githyanki, she would automatically be an ally of the Githzerai and therefore also of our Githzerai prisoner."

"Ah. This explains the mysteriousness of all of this," Sand sighed, stepping aside as Aldanon passed him.

"Good luck, Captain Farlong," the old man added at the door, "I hope their prisoner does not attempt to kill you. She seemed reasonable enough at Crossroad Keep – I spent almost a tenday sharing a room with her, and I can promise you that at least she does not snore – but you never can tell with assassins."

With that he left, and Brelaina gave a great sigh of relief, gesturing to one of the guards by the other door, and with a quick nod he left hurriedly. She glanced briefly at Cormick, looking exceptionally old and tired slumped in a chair by the window. He had not spoken, and his stillness was telling, but Sand rushed over to him, squeezing his good shoulder.

"You are feeling better, old friend?"

"I am, Sand. The priests of Lathander know how to heal old men as well as they can young ones, apparently. Lucky for me," Cormick smiled stiffly, looking to Isaviel now, "I had heard that you were back in Neverwinter, and I meant to tell you – you fought bravely and we took them almost by surprise. You are to be commended; both for your effort and for the lives spared. Had you not been there, we would have far fewer brave men standing with us…and we also now have what may be the key to taking the fight to our enemies: Crossroad Keep itself…"

"I felt your presence before my eyes fell upon you," a low, female voice stated softly in wonder, "Kalach-cha."

Isaviel looked around to see a tall, slender creature standing by the door, flanked by two armed guards, her wrists bound. Her skin was greenish and mottled with brown, like the Githyanki, and her face was half-covered by a jewelled veil that left her high-cheekbones and her large, yellow eyes uncovered. Her forehead was utterly unlined, and around it hung two thin beaded braids of reddish hair – a long plait could be seen over her shoulder, though the hood of her thin grey cloak was up. She wore a knee-length dress, utterly outlandish to Isaviel, its bodice of woven metal thread which glinted blue when it caught the light, its skirt of interlaced strips of leather, several inlaid with blue and white jewels that pulsed with light. She watched the Moon Elf coolly, her thoughts unreadable, patient as her nature was observed. Her feet were large and broad, their nails long and black, and she wore thin-soled sandals, fastened only at the ankles, while her hands were long-fingered, bony, their nails just as black, and even longer.

"Step forward, Kalach-cha, let me look upon you," the Githzerai said at last, her voice benign enough as she raised her hands to push the hood back, revealing the rest of her hair and the silver threads woven into it, "As you have looked so carefully upon me."

"You asked for me by name," Isaviel stated at length, not moving forward, "How is that?"

"Your name is not how I have come to know you. Your enemies have named you Kalach-cha; 'Shard-Bearer' and that is how I first heard of you. That word travels far, even reaching the ears of my people in the plane of Limbo. At first my people thought our enemies had erred, that they did not know that of which they speak. But here, now, you stand before me and I know for myself that they are right. I will aid you in any way I can."

"You wish to help me," Isaviel could not help but sound disbelieving, "Why should I agree to that? How can you help me?"

"I know a great deal about the problems that beset your people, and of what lies within you. I understand the reasons behind the attack on your heart and home. You will have no greater ally than me in this. In exchange for my aid it is my wish that you free me – that I might travel with you and aid you against your enemies."

"Captain, it is up to you. Crossroad Keep is your jurisdiction, and it is with you that she will go if you so choose," Brelaina shrugged.

"There is little reason not to believe her," Sand put in, "She is a Githzerai, a long-time enemy with the Githyanki. They are famed for their honesty, their loyalty…and their oaths."

"I believe she speaks truly, my lady," Casavir added softly from beside the Moon Elf, "Her aura is one of great purity."

"Alright…do you have a name by which I might call you?" Isaviel asked after a moment, cringing at the paladin's words.

"My name is Zhjaeve," the Githzerai responded with a nod, "And the trade between us is this: in exchange for my freedom I will grant you the knowing of this threat – and all the darkness its shadow casts."

"Then speak," Khelgar grunted impatiently, "Why should we free ye 'til we hear what ye have to say?"

"Aldanon believes that she is not dangerous," Casavir threw in, "And that carries weight with me. It should with you, too, Khelgar."

"If you deny me freedom, then anything I can do to aid you will prove useless," Zhjaeve responded immediately, her voice full of a desperate sadness, "I seek to know more of this Prime Material Plane, this world that I am to help you save, and I wish to speak honestly to it, so that it might hear what strikes at its heart. That means I must see your lands – what you have spilled blood for, and what you _will_ spill blood for."

"Very well," Isaviel nodded uncomfortably after a moment, looking into those strange yellow eyes, unsettled by Zhjaeve's conviction, and finding it hard to disbelief her, "I will free you, but I will kill you if you prove yourself a liar."

Immediately one of the guards cut the rope binding her wrists, and the Githzerai watched, rubbing at her slightly chafed skin only briefly before stepping forward and raising her eyes to meet Isaviel's once more. Though her expression was hidden by her veil, her eyes looked like she was smiling slightly.

"Thank you, Isaviel Farlong. Know that in freeing me you have gained more than anything you could have torn from the lips of your enemies."

"In that case your first stop will be the home of my uncle. It should help you learn a lot about our 'Prime Material Plane," Isaviel found herself grinning at the idea of this strange, distant creature dealing with the rowdy, drunken tavern atmosphere of The Sunken Flagon.

"Isaviel?" Cormick called after her as Khelgar and Casavir had escorted Zhjaeve from the room, and the Moon Elf turned in surprise, almost walking straight into Shandra.

"We have one more piece of news for you," Brelaina told her, and there was something in her tone, an intense expression of derision, as she folded her arms across her chest and looked to Cormick.

"Lord Nasher has commanded you to take on the governance of Crossroad Keep. Even before you had returned from the battle we had sent out builders and soldiers to start rebuilding. Its lands will be yours, and the tithes at its crossroads will be yours, as well as yours to collect…"

"Is your lord insane?" Isaviel exclaimed, throwing up her arms in disbelief, though they suddenly felt as heavy as led to her, "I have no background as a soldier, and I'm better at running from the Watch than I am at running with them…"

"Mind your words, squire," Brelaina noted coldly, but Isaviel looked at her with blazing eyes that showed she saw through her bluff.

"If I don't will you throw me in a cell, captain?"

"Isaviel, please," Cormick sighed, pulling himself to his feet, frowning deeply as he approached slowly, Sand at his elbow the whole way, "You dishonour your father – and your mother – with such brazen words. Winter may be well upon us, but the failed harvest, the poisoned waters, the darkness you saw in the Mere – as well as Black Garius and his black magic – are all signs we saw thirty years ago. The King of Shadows is coming, we are so certain of it now, and this is only going to get worse. You need Neverwinter – and Neverwinter needs you, I think. Crossroad Keep is your land – defend it for the sake of your people and for the sake of Neverwinter, as well as for yourself."

Isaviel found herself speechless, at a loss as to why Shandra looked so pleased, her blue eyes gleaming with happiness, her smile bright and broad. Sand looked ready to laugh at the Moon Elf's gormless expression, and that felt more like the appropriate response. Captain…of Crossroad Keep. Isaviel had never looked ahead much more than a day in her life, except when dreaming of escaping West Harbour, before the Watch and the Greycloaks starting putting these requirements upon her. She wanted nothing more than to tear the tabard from herself, throw it at Cormick's feet and flee the city. Waterdeep would do well – she might have once considered Luskan, but not after all they had done to her. In Waterdeep, she had heard, there was a complicated and successful spy network run by the exiled Moon Elf of Evermeet, Elaith Craulnober. If he did not accept her, perhaps the Shadow Thieves might. Neeshka had links to both thanks to Moire.

"So you have your orders," Brelaina smirked, "And it is with great pleasure that I will watch you go. You are to be received at Crossroad Keep by your new employees – Kana will meet you there, as your lieutenant. She will act as your advisor, and try to stop you losing this war."

"Jealous that my captaincy outranks your own, Brelaina?" Isaviel grinned, "And I don't lose."

* * *

The ashes had been cold for days, and under a thick blanket of snow they had frozen solid, an already forgotten pile of lost lives at the base of a great cliff-face. He had remembered all of it; that Elf taking the book from his hands and the shards from the pedestal, that self-satisfied look on her scarred face. He had been aware as the fallen acolytes were gathered up, along with his dead body, and piled in a heap with all the other killed Luskans off the road beyond the crossroads, by the cliff and under the shadow of the keep. They had burned, all of them, but neither he nor his acolytes had become ashes with the others. They had waited, silent, unable to move, while the frosts came after the rain, and the ice hardened over them; they had felt the soft brush of snow, not melting on their dead forms.

That night the shadows came, engulfing the remains of the pyre, seeping through the ashes and into Garius and his fallen servants, filling them with strength and their bare skulls with ghostly blue flame. At last they had the strength to rise, breaking through the ice with barely a shrug, each clad in robes of thick blackness, moving forward with dreadful purpose. There was no power greater than the King of Shadows, he knew that now. He had paid the ultimate price to learn that, and to accept that, but he had also come back out the other side, and in so doing been granted a strength and a purpose far greater than he had possessed before. He led the way, a ghastly sight, a skeletal corpse dressed in shadows, blue flames licking at his empty eye-sockets, and the others, now his siblings, all followed, silent and obedient to the will of their shared master.

On they went, not tiring, revelling in their new strength, in the gift they had been given: immortality, that which they had craved beyond anything else. Onward, to the Vale of Meredelain, where no man could kill them.

* * *

"Well, this is a surprise, I must say. But I suppose any enemy of the Githyanki is a friend o' mine," Duncan offered after he had been introduced to Zhjaeve, who was now wandering slowly around the perimeter of the room, asking Casavir about the items the barkeeper had on display, "Though even for you, lass, she's a strange one."

Isaviel just laughed at his baffled expression – he had been floundering ever since the Githzerai had refused his offer of ale, or wine, or beer. The half-Elf did not know where else he might find common ground with someone so outlandish. The Moon Elf's mirth died quickly, however, as she continued to regard her uncle, and she was surprised by her own sadness, taking his arm and drawing him aside, through the door into the corridor within which the stairs rose up to most of the bedrooms.

"What is it lass?" Duncan asked concernedly, "Ye look…troubled. There's somethin' ye need to tell me?"

"Yes," Isaviel sighed, staring through the open door absently, watching but not really seeing Neeshka playing cards at the table with Bishop and Mae'rillar, Grobnar practicing a love song to Elanee by the fire, Qara slapping an uncouth patron soundly across the face for his advances. It was not too busy yet, but there were expectant men of the Docks stepping through with increasing frequency, and the tavern hall was growing louder now that it was almost lunch-time for Neverwinter's working force.

"What is it then, lass? Don't keep me in suspense. It makes me realise I've got to worry about ye some more."

"That's your choice, not mine," Isaviel told him far more sharply than she should have, but it only made him frown disapprovingly, "We – or at least I – won't be staying at The Sunken Flagon from now on. Nasher has given Crossroad Keep to me, to prepare it for battle, and to drive me insane. I wish I could avoid it, but there it is: my fate, laid out for me without my permission."

"Gods," Duncan sighed, but his eyes were gleaming with pride as well as worry, "Ye've come far, and I think Daeghun'd be proud of ye. I'm sure he will be, when next ye meet…"

"With any luck I'll never see him again. He did me…"

"He helped ye, Isaviel, he made sure Merring taught ye to get over yer pains and yer angers. He taught ye the ways of the ranger, and spent hours out with ye in the wilds. If it weren't for him, ye'd not be the fighter ye are today, and I'd be worrying ten times worse over ye when ye step out of them doors tomorrow…"

"Tonight," Isaviel corrected him quickly, "I have to leave tonight. And I don't know when…if…I'll ever come back. If a war does start soon, Neverwinter will be under lockdown. You won't be able to leave, and I won't be able to return."

The half-Elven innkeeper looked momentarily stricken, but eventually nodded, gesturing back into the tavern.

"I suppose ye'd better get yer friends together then. I won't tell ye who I think ye should be leavin' here, but I'll be thinkin' it," he added pointedly.

Isaviel just snorted at that and headed straight towards Neeshka, Mae'rillar and Bishop. The Drow looked up first, and she sent him an uncomfortable smile. She had already spoken with all of the others and they had been very willing to join her. None of them had anything to hold them to Neverwinter, and Qara in particular would be gaining an improvement on her workload. It meant a change of scenery for all of them, and their wide ranges of skill and attitude would all be useful, she was certain. Shandra and Casavir both had experience with the lands near Neverwinter, natives of the area, and she suspected the commoner's outlook of one, and the soldier's of the other would prove invaluable.

These three who she was approaching, however…from what Isaviel had gleaned, it would appear that Bishop had been based in The Sunken Flagon for some time, roaming the wilds with his wolf when it suited him and coming back to the inn when it suited him. Neeshka had a life and an organisation to run in Neverwinter, and Mae'rillar too. But she needed them all, she was certain.

"You wish to have words with us?" Mae'rillar asked softly, his harsh accent momentarily obvious, his amber eyes watching her unblinkingly as she moved around the table to take a seat against the wall between Neeshka and Bishop.

"Something to do with that lovely captain's uniform she wears with so much pride," Bishop grunted without looking up from his set of cards, except to briefly snarl playfully towards Neeshka when the Tiefling continued her winning streak.

"Nasher has given Crossroad Keep to me," Isaviel sighed, and that made Neeshka look up sharply, "And I won't be living in Neverwinter anymore."

"_What_?" Neeshka exclaimed, dropping her cards onto the table, "Nasher can't think you'll stay in his service when it doesn't help you personally anymore, surely?"

"To be honest I think he'll have me killed," the Moon Elf shrugged, trying to sound humorous.

"That's if the King of Shadows doesn't get you first," Bishop suggested, and she kicked him under the table, but he did not even flinch. Instead he just smirked.

"And why do you come to all three of us with this information?" Mae'rillar inquired astutely, the expression on his chiselled features still unreadable.

"She's just trying to be…"

"I would like you all to come with me," Isaviel admitted, "Neeshka, I need you with me, if you'll come, when we get to Haven. The others will drive me crazy. And the contact with the Thieves' Guild will prove invaluable; if you can keep me informed about the plans of the Lords' Alliance, of what Nasher is doing in Neverwinter, and about Luskan. Mae'rillar…you're the best fighter I've ever come across…"

"You improve every time we meet," Mae'rillar offered.

"And you're a better teacher than Casavir, too. From what I've heard, we'll have a lot of new recruits to train, and I'd rather have people I know teaching them over people Nasher might choose." _And someday I'd like to win against you, too_. The Drow's slight smirk suggested he had correctly guessed her unspoken addition.

"This is suddenly so much more exciting!" Neeshka squeaked, "We can run the Guild from Crossroad Keep better than we can so close to the bases of the Watch here in Neverwinter."

"Thank you, Neeshka," Isaviel smiled, then looked to Mae'rillar once more, "I won't tell you to fight for me in any battles that might come. I won't pretend I won't ask you to, though."

"I will come with you," Mae'rillar acceded, his sudden smile fair to behold, his hand settling casually over Neeshka's, "And never fear, I once fought – on the winning side, might I add – against my own mother and her army of monsters. I suspect a King of Shadows cannot terrify me more than she and her devils did."

"Well," Isaviel hid her surprise and disquiet at all that suggested, "I believe we have a deal."

She stood then, and Bishop gave a quick nod, only glancing sidelong at her, before she could ask him that which she had just expected of the other two. It was better that way; he could not blackmail her with ideas of ownership, commands or suchlike if he offered when she did not ask.

Once everyone was ready to leave that evening, Duncan joined them outside The Sunken Flagon, rubbing his bare arms against the cold. It was already dark, and Sal had lit the lanterns over the awning, allowing them to see how thickly their breath frosted in front of their slowly numbing faces. All of the travellers were dressed in multiple cloaks and their best furs, hoods pulled up, gloves pulled on, sporting heavy packs across their shoulders and sharpened blades at their belts. Zhjaeve had been permitted to carry her own spear, an odd implement with an extremely long handle made of some blue material which bent like yew but certainly was not yew. She did not seem phased by the cold, and Khelgar had pressed additional furs into her hands, pulled out of storage by Duncan, almost by force. She had agreed to wear them over her other clothes, though they had been unable to find boots large enough and snow was settling upon her bare skin there.

They would be met at the gates by Sir Nevalle and Sand, as well as an appropriate number of horses, and a carriage to help transport Grobnar. The Gnome could walk again thanks to Sand's health potions, but it would be a little while yet before he was fit enough for unaided travel. Once Mae'rillar and Neeshka arrived, they all said their farewells to Duncan and moved away, leaving the Moon Elf to part with her uncle and the inn she had called her home for almost a year and a half.

"It is as it must be, I suppose," Duncan nodded firmly after a moment of silence, but she could see the disappointment in his eyes before he pulled her into a tight and unexpected hug, "Ye'll do well, lass. Come back and tell me about it all when ye're free again."

"I will, I promise."


	25. The Scar in the Land

The reconstruction of Crossroad Keep had been well underway by the time Isaviel and her companions had arrived. The snows might be reaching a foot thick, but that only seemed to spur on the men working on the scaffolds; Nasher had spared no expense on this, evidently. Over a hundred men were employed at their work, reroofing with strong oak beams and tiles, pulling the bailey walls back together massive stone by massive stone. They worked in shifts well into the night, with five wizards between them all sent to keep a magical light shining at certain key places, and to make sure the fires did not go out, lest they freeze to death. With a hard winter promised, there was a great sense of urgency here, where the respective clang and scrape of the rebuilt forge and carpenter's workshop in the bailey seemed never to cease. Their tents and workplaces filled the field outside the castle, where they had also made a start on the farmhouse, and the dead farmer's family had been permitted to come and bury him.

Over the next four weeks, the keep was well on its way to completion, and it would need to be, for the snows were falling heavily almost every other day, and it would become an impossible task to keep the bailey clear at all times. It was cold, and it was growing darker. But they now had a functioning kitchen – a vast cavern of heat and luscious smells – and an impressive (but bare) banquet hall within which soldiers, workers and servants alike ate at the benches, jostling for a place by the enormous fire, its dusty display shield void of both banner and complimentary weapons.

The library was quite large – equal in size at least to the tavern floor of The Sunken Flagon – and Aldanon had set up camp there. He even had a bed brought down, and a candle burned most hours of the night. It was dusty, many of the ancient books mouldy at best, but they were still legible, and he was having a great deal of fun reorganising and cataloguing with the aid of his long suffering manservant and some of the other new castle employees. Every time Isaviel went to see him about Haven they had cleared up significantly more, and there were more maps, charts and scrawled sums all over the table, some accidentally carved into the wood, but he only had theories. Plenty of them, and no facts.

The central keep was all but completed after a month, as were the barracks behind the building along with the practice areas. Many dummies had been filled with the last leaves of autumn instead of straw, which had been at a premium for the thatching of the roofs of the building around the rest of the bailey. The great defensive walls were taking a long time to fix, but the gate tower was complete, its base larger than Sand's whole house and perhaps five times higher, with a portcullis as well as a double set of doors. A ditch had been dug early in the rebuilding and filled with sharpened spikes, a drawbridge added – currently without a means of being drawn up.

As well as an armoury and a carpenter's workshop there was a small shop to keep up morale, and Sand had taken up residence in another building to create his alchemical wares. He spent a deal of time consulting with Aldanon and attempting to keep the old man on the course of finding Haven. More than ever he was looking more tired than his half-Elvish blood would allow one to assume his right, given his apparent youth.

Nasher had left not only Sir Nevalle as Isaviel's minder, but had also chosen the Moon Elf's lieutenant Kana most purposefully to torment her, it would seem. She was an acidic-toned, hard-faced soldier who followed the rules to the letter and had a penchant for shouting when she should have been discreet. She had been very forceful in her recommendation that Sir Nevalle be given the officer's quarters in the north-west tower – they were larger, it was true, but that meant that the tower had to be completed more quickly, changing the schedule and rushing the builders. The spiral stairs meant it was hard to drag up the necessary furniture, and the plump overseeing decorator was panting and almost fainting by the end of that day.

Kana had also insisted that Isaviel would be no true captain if she did not wear the appropriate garb and live in the appropriate rooms. The commander of Crossroad Keep did at least live in the central building, while the stairs and balcony leading up to those chambers from the main hall had also been rebuilt in stone. The Moon Elf felt a guest - or pampered prisoner – in her own rooms, which were lavish and vast. Her bedroom was unnecessarily furnished before she could stop it being so, and someone (probably Kana) had made sure swathes of new, richer clothes were ready for her. That meant someone (probably Kana, too) had measured her clothes. That was unsettling.

She had her own staircase leading up to the ramparts of the keep, and a hidden door leading to an escape route which it had taken Isaviel perhaps thirty seconds to find hidden behind the bath tub. Thankfully the fire was always kept blazing, and she often found herself huddling close to it to write the journal she had been forced to create just to keep control of all the details under her care. Ahead of the bedroom, the sitting room had been helpfully laid out with maps and condescending reading material on battle tactics. A servant was always on hand outside her door, and they always made sure she had hot food in the mornings and evenings waiting for her. She found herself grateful but embarrassed, and her early attempts to shoo the servants away did her no good. They kept coming back.

When Kana had tried to dictate to her which of the soldiers stationed with them should be in command of various groups, Isaviel had refused to listen. She had named Casavir her lieutenant for soldiers and Khelgar his marshal – as well as Shandra sergeant for the foot. She had dared to put her faith in Qara for part of a contingent of the Many-Starred Cloaks, and thus far it had worked. Their practice of offensive spells, every day at midday, could be heard throughout the keep, and it made her feel – perhaps ironically – a little safer. She had been less trusting of Bishop, and instead made Grobnar sergeant of the archers. The ranger and Elanee instead each had groups of scouts, as did Mae'rillar on a part-time basis. The Drow was also a self-titled 'weapon-master', having a hand in training all of the recruits. Even the most seasoned fighters came out from practice with a few extra bruises and various injuries to their egos. Isaviel was no exception in this, but every time she fought him she saw his impressed look – something he did not give lightly – and he had begun to look a little taxed as well after their most recent training sessions.

Neeshka was her spymaster. The title had made the Tiefling squeak with delight, and she ran her operations from a small and entirely unassuming house by the motte of the keep. Both she and Mae'rillar lived there, but their relationship was not akin to that of Casavir and Shandra, who thus far remained happy but…awkward with one another. It was as if their characters were so similar that they clashed and could not find peace. Shandra had complained of the paladin's coolness, and Isaviel had been at a loss to console her. Bishop was cold in rather opposite ways from Casavir, and he never displayed that quality to the Moon Elf when he came back from the ranging.

Zhjaeve had made her home in the small circular building which had once been the castle's closest offering to a temple. All the trappings aiming it to one god or another had been removed years ago, but its sturdy stone structure – and its small size – seemed to have saved it from the ruin of the rest of the complex. She had just a simple bedroll at one side, and had been known to pray at the centre of the room, upon the tiled floor of which had been inset an unusual spherical stone of streaked marble. Whenever Isaviel came to ask her for information over the first four weeks her answer had been the same: she had said that she could not reveal her knowledge yet, for there was still more to learn. Now, after four weeks, she had asked to see the Moon Elf just after dawn, a time when she knew Isaviel's new dutiful lifestyle would see her finishing her hot breakfast of spiced porridge.

They met on the keep's battlements above Isaviel's room, when the sky was clear but oddly grey in the early morning light, promising to be a blinding blue when the sun actually troubled itself to rise. Snow had been carefully swept even from this part of the roof, to avoid any more issues with structural integrity, but it hung a foot deep on the crenellations. Zhjaeve was already waiting there, staring out at the still, snowy world beyond, evidently having taken the long way round, but having arrived there first regardless. Isaviel had struggled with the trap door, which had frozen shut rather wilfully, but it had eventually swung open with a loud clang and little dignity.

"Do you have some answers for me at last?" Isaviel asked as she stood straight, kicking the trapdoor closed and approaching to stand by the Githzerai's side. Her companion still only wore that strange dress and that thin cloak, without shoes, and her face remained veiled. The furs Khelgar had given her remained at her little temple.

"Yes," Zhjaeve responded softly.

She glanced around at the Moon Elf only briefly, her eyes sweeping over the half-completed ramparts and the sleeping world ahead; the battalion of tents in the field were all but camouflaged in a blanket of white, as were the trees beyond. The little farmhouse had smoke coming from its chimney and snow melting swiftly on its roof, dripping from its eaves.

"You seek to be known as the leader of this place. That is wise; you have taught me a great deal with your struggles to fit in with the human world, and I have learned even more from observing that to which you are a stranger."

"Speak more clearly," Isaviel suggested, already feeling annoyance rising, "Riddles will not help my patience."

"The garb of a leader suits you, though you think it does not," Zhjaeve continued, unbothered.

Instantly knowing to what the Githzerai was referring, Isaviel looked down at her new green velvet tunic uncomfortably. In some senses it was a little less obvious than the tabard Brelaina had expected her to wear, perhaps. But it had also been given to her, slyly, by Kana. That grated. It was evidently an item of higher status than her birth should have permitted, with little gold chains laced loosely at its neck. Her gloves bore the symbol of Neverwinter, as did the showy red cloak she had to display – it helped that it was fur-lined, and she could wear her mother's cloak unseen beneath it.

"Even now, beauty persists," Zhjaeve was saying, "And I see now that this is a world worth fighting for; and that what I have seen, what I have felt, and what I know are just a small speck in a far more complicated expanse of land, sea, peoples, cities and tongues. It is not surprising to me that our enemies seek to destroy this place with their blades and war.

"I once endured servitude, long ago, as did all of my people, under the Mind Flayers, the Illithid. What you have felt and heard of are just parts of a greater war, one almost as great as that which split my people on the sword of Gith many years ago. The divide remains though the sword in its original form is lost, a sword much like that which you may one day wield. It would seem both tragedies are tied to such a blade. There is a lord who dwells in Darkness, in the Shadow Plane, and he has fought on this Plane before against those who embraced Gith's hatred: the Githyanki."

"Why did they fight? Why here, on the Prime Material, and not on the Shadow Plane? Or the Giths' Astral Plane?"

"The King of Shadows did once attack the Githyanki; he tried to cast his shadow upon their fortress, and thousands died to drive him back. Without the great power of the sword of Gith itself, they could not kill his astrally projected form in time and he retreated; they were only able to destroy the portal through which he had travelled, cutting the cord to his land and thus making sure he could not return. Thus the war was forestalled, but it came about in the end, at the place where he first forsook the Weave and instead turned to the Shadow Weave, forever losing his reason."

"Then without the sword of Gith, with only the shard of a silver sword, I cannot defeat him? I can only stall him?" Isaviel felt the fear of that sinking deep inside her. Would this haunt her for all her days? Was this not a war she could win?

"I believe so. The King of Shadows was a creature created by an ancient empire, that of Illefarn, to which he was devoted millennia ago. That is, he was devoted to its protection and not to evil. But when the Weave failed he sought the only other alternative on your Plane, the Shadow Weave, which polluted his mind, and his increased power warped his reality. But he is still a creature of the Prime Material Plane, not the Shadow Plane, and any silver sword should be able to cut the cord holding him to the Shadow Plane, weakening him, cutting him away from the power that feeds him. And there is another path you must take; the Ritual of Purification."

"And what is that?"

"It was set up by his creators to grant him peace when his time of servitude is over; their empire fell before this could be completed. Their great capital, Arvahn, is long lost, rivalled only by Gauntlgrym in its underground splendour, but I believe I know the whereabouts of the key to the ritual. It is the Pool of Purification, standing in the Illefarn Ruins deep in the swamp which you once called home. It will be your memory that grants us safe passage there; I have agreed to combine my skill with that of Aldanon, and we have found a way of bypassing the wards and choking darkness veiling your old home from safe passage."

"This ritual is the only way of having a hope of success?" Isaviel could not help but show the disquiet and the fear in her tone – as well as her distrust. How could this Githzerai know so much?

The Githzerai watched her silently for a second and then shook her head, gesturing to the bag the Moon Elf wore on her waist.

"Show me the shards you carry, and I can judge for myself what manner of destruction we may dole to the King of Shadows."

As Isaviel took the bag off, beginning to lay the pieces out in a row on the ground between them, Zhjaeve crouched in front of her, watching intently. Once all six shards and their hilt glinted feebly before them, sparking tellingly at every touch from the Moon Elf, the Githzerai drew in her breath slowly, taking Isaviel by the shoulder firmly while they crouched opposite each other.

"It is not just the ritual but also the blade which will give you your only chance of success," Zhjaeve nodded, and it looked like she might have been smiling condescendingly, "You doubt me, and this is because you do not know me. You need _allies_, Kalach-cha, not more enemies and doubt to divide you. For in dividing your mind you divide the battlefield and cut your strength in half," she shook her head as though dismayed, "I am a zerth and I swear upon the Circle of Zerthimon that what I speak to you I know to be true."

"A pity I neither know what a 'zerth' is, nor what it is that you swear upon," Isaviel pointed out dryly, and Zhjaeve turned to face her fully, the imploring look in her eyes apparently intense.

"Your life is as precious to me as it is for the followers of Gith to end it. And this king…know that he threatens us all," she paused, breathing deeply, before continuing, "And know that you have been misled by expectation. That sword…I have seen those pieces before. I remember the power they held as one, and I feel its echo where it is sheathed in you, by your heart. It was said the sword of Gith, once drawn, would never find a scabbard again, but now it has…in you."

"What are you saying?" Isaviel demanded, bringing her hand up defensively over her scar, "That this sword isn't just a typical silver sword, whatever that's supposed to mean? It's the…original one? The most powerful one?"

"Yes. The sword of Gith; the greatsword of dread and tragedy. From what I have seen, as you have shown me, there are two key pieces missing, those which hold the two central gems. With those in your possession, know that you may well be able to re-forge the sword, and wield it against our foe."

"And how am I supposed to find two shards? Shall we take a shovel with us to West Harbour? Don't think I'm particularly enamoured by having to see Daeghun again…" she stopped, seeing the glimmer of something strange in Zhjaeve's expression. It filled her with momentary dread so great that she dared not ask what that look might have meant.

"You are the heart of the blade, and you carry several pieces as well as the hilt. They will find you, not the other way around, Kalach-cha. I make this pronouncement to you, greater than the bond of Two Deaths as One, with a strength that echoes the Pronouncement of Two Skies. I make the Pronouncement of Three in Darkness, Two in Light, as when the two of us shall meet the king in his fortress it shall become a battle of three. And when it is over, the two of us shall walk in the light and you will taste freedom for the first time. Just as Gith and Zerthimon did when they broke the will of the Illithid at Saragossa's End. It is my life I am giving to you, Kalach-cha, and I ask that you let me share your path with you."

"I…" Isaviel paused, withdrawing a step or two, those words ringing with enough magic that she feared this was some kind of geas, "J-just remember that I do not fight alone. I have friends who will fight with me, and all of them are more trusted than you."

"Not all of them will prove themselves worthy of your trust, I fear," Zhjaeve could have snapped those words, but the calm with which she delivered them was just as cutting, "Time will show you that, and when that time comes, you will know it was me in whom you should have placed your faith and trust."

* * *

"Captain, your place is here, with your men," Kana was protesting, "You do not need to go on such a dangerous mission; send one of your…friends instead."

"One of my friends?" Isaviel paused to snarl at her, ignoring the icy winds and stinging snow which assaulted her as she turned, almost blowing the hood from her head as they waited for the great keep doors to groan open, "What logic is there in sending others to do what I dare not? I am sure Sir Nevalle will be happy to take over for a few days."

They stepped through the small gap opened in the difficult doors quickly, stamping their boots and brushing off their cloaks to remove the layer of snow they had collected during their walk across the courtyard, but Kana was persistent. She stayed with Isaviel as one of the servants came to take away the Moon Elf's cloaks and gloves, items which she relinquished unwillingly, still struggling with the social change of her position.

"I won't hear any more. You are here to advise me on the keep, but what I do beyond here is my business," Isaviel told Kana firmly.

The dark-haired woman drew herself up to attention, the model of a dutiful soldier there with her rigid, muscular frame dressed in equally stiff leather armour, her black cloak slung over one arm. Still, her expression was hard, her mouth set in a line, and it was clear that she did not agree.

"As you will, Captain," Kana nodded sharply, "I shall inform Sir Nevalle."

"Oh," Isaviel laughed at her implication, "Don't think I'll stay here just because he tells me I have to. He needs what I could gain from this trip home, so does Nasher, and so does Neverwinter. So do I, and that's why I'm going. I don't have a choice."

She turned on her heel and stalked away from her lieutenant then, moving through the busy central hall. They all agreed that the men's morale might improve with a little more decoration, so Neverwinter's banners had been hung on both walls, while a great rug, showing a green and gold shield, the flag of Crossroad Keep, ran the length of the room, up to the balcony stairs. Someone had unearthed the great chandelier which hung above them now, though at this time all of its candles were unlit, the last few hours of daylight easily illuminating the hall through the large horizontal window above the front doors. Four desks had been set up in there, and workers or soldiers were reporting to the clerks seated there, giving information on building progress, the state of the lands and the roads, disciplinary issues, complaints and the like. Servants were always dodging through the building, with food, brooms, and books. Peace and quiet was hard to find.

Isaviel saw Sand waiting for her by the right wall, just by the door which led to the library. He wore his typical embroidered tailcoat over a plain, stained shirt, a little twisted and poorly tucked into his black trousers. There were bags under his eyes, and alarmingly Isaviel thought she could make out a few new streaks of grey in his black hair where there never had been any before.

"You look tired, my dear," the wizard noted as she reached his side, and that made her laugh and arch an eyebrow.

"You try dealing with Kana. And this entire keep is one great, never-ending chaos," she paused, watching his grey eyes, seeing sadness there, and on reflex placed a hand against his shoulder, "And if I look tired, what does that make you?"

It felt so strange to be worrying about someone else, but nowadays she found herself always thinking about so many other people all at once that the thoughts came unbidden and out of habit. He noticed the atypical gesture as well and his eyes flickered.

"An old wizard with too much to do, I'm afraid," he sighed, squeezing her hand and then reaching for the door beside him, opening it and gesturing to the quieter corridor beyond, "Might we have words before we go to see Aldanon and Zhjaeve?"

"Alright," Isaviel could not help but sound a little anxious as they stepped through, closing the door behind them.

Here the corridor was bare grey stone, a chill draft swooping through it, and voices could be heard coming through the door ahead, that of the library, as well as the one behind them. It sounded as though Aldanon had come upon some particularly exciting information, for he was fairly shouting. Sand, in contrast, leaned closer to Isaviel and spoke in hushed tones, pausing on the first word as a servant hurried past with a pale of water.

"Isaviel…I would council that you listen to the Githzerai. She is of a group of people who have a reputation for honesty and loyalty; she wears the robes of zerth and even goes by that title herself. As a Githzerai she is quite opposite from the Githyanki you have met; she will not lie, and since she says she will help I believe that means she truly will, and unswervingly so. Her ways of doing things are strange, just as is the way she talks, but Aldanon trusts her, and I trust Aldanon. He knows a great deal, and he agreed that the Ritual of Purification is the first step in winning this war, if we can reach the appropriate place."

"Don't tell me you got me all worried just to give me a few lessons on who to trust," Isaviel sighed, folding her arms, but that only made Sand look wearier.

"Now you sound like Bishop," the wizard complained, "It does not become you – or him, actually. But no, I could have just as happily spoken those words for the whole hall to hear," he put a hand on her arm, his eyes staring into hers intently, "You must know…I have to tell you before we leave for West Harbour, and the Illefarn Ruins Elanee can so kindly guide us to…I have not been able to contact Tarmas for some time. There has been no contact with anywhere between Highcliff and the Mere for many weeks. I have tried, I promise you I have tried, but I can find nothing and hear nothing from your old home."

"You think it is lost."

"I fear it is, my dear," his words were so soft, so full of concern, she felt the blood rush to her face at his endearment, "Just…do not expect anyone to be there when we arrive. They have probably joined the refugees at Highcliff."

"Duly noted," Isaviel managed a smile, "But please tell me you'll be changing into some more appropriate travelling gear before we leave? That shirt has wine stains on it…and you've not even put it on properly."

"Oh," Sand looked down at his dishevelled state and nodded in surprise, "Of course. I'll meet you in the courtyard shortly."

As the wizard hurried away, Isaviel headed towards the library door, preparing herself for gathering together Aldanon and his wits. She was frustrated enough that several of her friends had commitments – which she had given them – that meant they could not join her on this trip south. Casavir and Qara, as well as Grobnar and Neeshka, all had duties to fulfil in training the soldiers, and Bishop was out on a ranging. That left her with Shandra, Khelgar, Elanee, Zhjaeve and Sand. She was also relieved – to be leaving Crossroad Keep for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Isaviel had promised them that the Mere would not be as cold as Crossroad Keep or any of Neverwinter's surrounding lands, but Shandra was taking no chances. Beneath her fur-lined cloak and her fur jerkin she wore a shirt of Casavir's and felt very risqué for it, although she suspected he was gallant enough to lend one if his spare shirts to any woman who might ask. Zhjaeve's complete disregard for the cold made her feel rather over-dressed, but 'better safe than sorry' were words her mother had ingrained in her from a young age. Around the same age she had first told stories of Haven and its demon-filled halls.

Aldanon looked rather ludicrous dressed in his layers of white fur and cloth, taking Shandra's method of cold-prevention to extremes. For the past while he had been reading from the appropriate book while the others waited in some kind of arcane circle created by Sand. Zhjaeve was seated at its centre, cross-legged, her eyes closed and her hands resting lightly on her knees. Otherwise this spare room in Sand's house here at the keep was deserted – he had even cleared it of furniture, or just never bothered to fill it.

In truth, Shandra was growing tired of waiting for this spell to be over, and she could sense that Khelgar was becoming shifty beside her as well. The others seemed more relaxed; Sand and Isaviel were casting each other glances, but Shandra suspected that had nothing to do with the spell, and Elanee was entirely still, her eyes closed like Zhjaeve's. There was a little smile on the druid's face, though – the Mere was home for her, just as it was for Isaviel, after all, and she had been gone a long time.

Eventually, there was a change, a humming rising in Shandra's ears, and as she looked about herself she saw the room darkening – when Aldanon lowered the book, smiling at the group in triumph, he spoke some good luck message, but his words were no longer audible. The room span away into darkness and all Shandra could sense was a great rushing in her ears, her whole body weightless, her feet anchored to nothing…until she stumbled on soft mossy ground.

"What…" she started to ask, but her eyes were already adjusting; she caught herself on a bare branch of a mouldering dead tree, seeing the others looking about themselves as well.

The air was still and thick, and it hung heavy in the gloomy world. She could see the vague forms of trees much like the one she clutched, dotted around the area, pools of water numerous and complicatedly interwoven with each other for as far as the eye could see. The sky was grey, unending clouds, and the air smelled of rot…of death.

"Where are we? This doesn't look much like a village," Shandra pointed out.

Her words died to a whisper when Isaviel, Sand and Elanee did not stop staring beyond her. There was a great deal of fear and horror in their eyes, and the woman suddenly had no desire to look behind herself.

"We aren't far," Isaviel told her softly as Zhjaeve stood, her eyes flickering tellingly over at Elanee, who looked just as stricken, before the Moon Elf's mouth set, and though tears twinkled in her eyes, none fell, "It's just behind you."

Swallowing hard, Shandra turned to see what the others were staring at. Khelgar did the same, and his gormless expression of wordless shock quite successfully conveyed Shandra's emotions as well. So that was where the smell of rot was coming from…and why the town was so silent that she had not thought to look behind herself.

The village of West Harbour was a skeleton of charred wood, the odd wall or doorframe still standing, but nothing much else. Dead bodies littered the ground, some looking unsettlingly small and unarmed, and none of them had been burned like the buildings. Though the air stank of death, they were still whole and recognisable.

"Retta, Georg…" Isaviel murmured the names as she began to step towards the town, her eyes locked on the village ahead of her as if there was no one with her, and she began to approach slowly, unerringly.

"Isaviel!" Sand moved to try to stop her, but then his eyes locked on something – on some_one_ – and he grew pale, moving past the Moon Elf at a rush, "Great Mystra, let me be deceived," he gasped.

The wizard came to a stop by the ruins of the closest house, staring down at a fallen man while Isaviel walked on, and on, looking unblinkingly at the destruction and death all around her. But Sand fell to his knees by the man who he recognised, a wild sadness in his eyes, and in spite of Zhjaeve's warnings he dared to reach out to touch the corpse.

"Tarmas," Shandra heard him saying as Khelgar reached his side, placing a comforting hand on the wizard's shoulder, "How could this happen? How could _I let this happen_?"

She saw tears glinting on his cheeks, and it made a lump rise in her throat, too. She did not know this place, or its people, but the horror was great and the scene desolate. Shandra 's legs were shaking as she trod the dark earth towards where Isaviel had stopped, at the centre of the town, blinking down at another corpse. She looked around at Shandra when the woman reached her side, her eyes still full of unshed tears, her expression one of fury and not of sadness, her voice bleak and void of emotion.

"Everyone is dead. West Harbour is dead."

"S-surely not everyone," Shandra tried to sound hopeful, and her words sounded so faint and weak in this gloomy landscape of silent death, "There must have been people who got away…"

"Merring taught me how to fight," Isaviel interrupted.

The Moon Elf sounded so detached as she stared down at the man at her feet; he was balding, with grey whiskers, dressed in the red and gold robes of a priest of Lathander, their colours still visible though they were sodden with blood and the damp of the swamp air. His eyes were foggy white, staring up at the dark sky, and he was clutching a box in one hand and a sunburst-shaped shuriken in the other; the Moon Elf bent and took it from his grasp, turning it over in her hands.

"He taught me how to use these," she continued, her eyes wide, her words reminiscent of a little girl explaining about a family friend, "And he taught me how to meditate, and he cared, though I never did. He should have hated me like the rest of the village, but he never did. I have repaid him with negligence enough to kill him…fitting, really."

As if acting on reflex, the Moon Elf dropped the shuriken into the pouch on her belt for the others of its kind, and stepped away from Shandra, heading past the other central houses and towards the black river ahead. Beyond that stood a tall, derelict house, its roof gone, its front door smashed, and its walls rotting in the damp air. It had not burned so thoroughly as the others, and now it was Isaviel's focus. Shandra had to rush to keep up with her, the others extricating Sand from Tarmas and following.

They crossed the bridge over the river, and before anyone could think to stop her, Isaviel vanished inside the house. Sand came up to Shandra's side where she stood peering through the empty doorframe into the gloomy house, his face stained with tears, but his expression composed. They waited in silence; he seemed to understand something which Shandra did not, and when Isaviel returned, a dark shadow forming out of the gloom in the house, she held out a necklace. He took it, staring down at its pendant, depicting two crossed swords, before looking up at her.

"Shayla's amulet," the wizard nodded, "The symbol of Arvoreen."

"Tarmas and Merring are dead," Isaviel spoke flatly, "And Daeghun left that behind. But his bow and his cloak are gone. There's no sign of him in there…"

"And if he had fought and died, we would have seen his body with those of the others," Sand added for her, his expression brightening just a little, though Isaviel's did not.

"Know that those men, women and children met their deaths many weeks ago," Zhjaeve warned, "There is foul magic at work here and it is unsafe to stay longer than we must."

Both Isaviel and Sand gave her furious glares, and the Moon Elf looked so angry that Shandra brought a comforting hand up to squeeze her shoulder – anything to distract her from that murderous intent. Isaviel only glanced at her, her expression wavering, and then she stepped away from her old home, nodding quickly and striding towards Elanee and Khelgar, who had remained on the other side of the bridge. The druid looked fearful, and a little green from what they had all just seen. Sand managed a feeble smile when Shandra patted his shoulder too, as if he understood that the woman was trying to help in her own awkward way, even if she could not really comprehend the scene.

"Alright, Elanee," Isaviel began sharply, her lip curling when she beheld the tears on the druid's cheeks and the quivering of her slender form, "Pull yourself together. This was my home, not yours. Do you see me crying? We're here for a reason, and you're the only one who knows the way there."

Her own voice betrayed her unstable emotions quite clearly, however, breaking on the last word, but she paused only briefly, rubbing a hand against her forehead and pulling away from Khelgar's attempts to pat at her elbow. Shandra could definitely feel sympathy for the Dwarf in this situation, even if the emotions of Isaviel were beyond her.

"Now lead the way," the Moon Elf commanded, and the druid gave an unhappy nod, her bottom lip quivering.

Elanee led them back the way they had come, and Shandra had to force her eyes to stay fixed upon the young woman ahead of her, lest they wander over to the half-seen corpses she could still make out in the corners of her vision. She realised she had to keep herself under control for the sake of the others, though her stomach churned and her hands were shaking. She and Khelgar brought up the rear of the group, making sure Sand did not waver – the half-Elf was evidently tough, but Tarmas had been a friend of his since childhood, and if the realisation of his friend's death had not already sunk in, it would soon. Zhjaeve walked a little in front of the wizard, talking endlessly to Isaviel, but it was clear the latter was not listening. She was looking around, her golden eyes hard as she seemed to be making sure to remember every part of the destruction and death at West Harbour. The hatred there unsettled Shandra deeply, and it was especially hard to take given the circumstances.

Just when Shandra was beginning to think that they were leaving West Harbour, the buildings and the corpses now all behind them, they stopped suddenly at the top of the small hill at the far side of the village. Both Isaviel and Zhjaeve had halted, Elanee almost out of sight down the opposite slope before she noticed. They were staring at a dark section of earth – though the soil here was almost black, its grass dry and grey in death, still this was darker, and more barren. The Moon Elf was holding a hand against her chest, over her heart, wincing as though in pain, and the Githzerai was watching her intently.

"Isaviel?" Shandra asked concernedly, reaching her side.

"What is it?" Sand sounded just as worried, but when he joined them his still-watery eyes took one look at the ground, and one look at Isaviel, and he spoke for her, "The scar in the land. This is where you were found after the Battle of West Harbour."

Shandra noticed that Isaviel was crying now – or, at least, there were tears streaking down her emotionless face, dripping from her chin. She was clutching Sand's arm hard, and though he grimaced he did not try to stop her.

"I hear the wailing of a child…the clamour of a great battle," Zhjaeve said softly, "And the shards you have with you – they are singing. There is strong magic here. Know that we may need to return here in search of other answers, but first we must reach the Illefarn ruins. We…"

"…do not have much time. I know," Isaviel agreed through gritted teeth, and just like that they were all moving again.

"It's not far," Elanee called as softly as she could over her shoulder, almost invisible ahead of them through the thickening fog as they came closer to the marshland proper, "The gates are solid stone, though. I do not know how we will get inside."

The marshes were so silent and still in the grey gloom, the air thick and lifeless with not a glimpse of the sun, while the scenes of death were so close behind them, that Shandra almost shouted in fear when she felt Isaviel's hand on her shoulder. The Moon Elf materialised by her side in the dimness; the woman had not even noticed her double back.

"Be on your guard," Isaviel hissed, "We are being followed. I've told the others. We might need to run, but we can't get separated…"

The water behind them shifted, and Shandra felt the air growing cold. Isaviel's eyes grew large, glinting with impossibly reflective qualities in the low light, and her head whipped around, staring intently in the gloom. Then she gave Shandra a hard shove, unsheathing her daggers almost in the same motion as she sent a pair of shuriken flying into the fog.

"Run!"

"What?" Shandra heard herself demanding, even as she tore her own shortsword free, almost slipping on the muddy ground as she turned, struggling to speed into a run as quickly as Isaviel, "Didn't Aldanon give us some…protective…shield…"

"Evidently you weren't listening," the Moon Elf sighed, giving Shandra another push so that she stumbled on an unexpected stone step, invisible in the thick fog ahead – the others could be heard just beyond, "Here are the ruins. And this is the only place he can promise us protection. Now get in. I'm not dying because you weren't listening."


	26. Unwelcome Reunions

**Points to those who can spot the Hordes of the Underdark reference - and double points to those who can spot the Baldur's Gate reference as well ^.^  
Oh, and if ever you needed proof that Bishop is a bad influence on Isaviel, it's in this chapter...**

* * *

Once upon a time Isaviel would have laughed at Shandra's naivety, seeing the woman's confused expression even before Sand summoned light for them, illuminating the surprisingly large stone chamber into which they had descended. The human woman had evidently not thought to listen to Aldanon's tedious explanations about how his field of protection would work; it could get them to the Mere, and it could keep them protected in the ruins because of the ritual's own magic. It could not keep them safe from all of the horrors of the Mere outside, and that was what had risen up to meet them in the small section of swamp between West Harbour and the old Illefarn site.

"Well," Shandra offered at last, staring about the half-fogged room with her shortsword still out in front of her while the others were catching their breath after their run through the marshes, "At least they can't follow us in here, right?"

"By the Lone Wolf, I hope they can't," Isaviel agreed, glancing behind the woman, up at the stairs which were slowly filling with darkness, then back around the room, "But I'm starting to think they will be able to soon." _You must be strong. Because this is not over yet._

The chamber was of smooth-hewn grey granite, utterly bare and not particularly ruined. The exception to this rule was the immense doorframe ahead, made from glittering white stone graven with a pattern of intricately woven strands. The stone doors which had once blocked the way lay in four pieces just beyond it, and there was a huge slab inlaid in the floor before that, words carved into it in a script that Isaviel could not read. Both Sand and Zhjaeve joined her as she peered down at the words, and the wizard nodded to himself.

"This looks like Ancient Illefarn script," Sand began softly once had caught his breath after their run, still evidently struggling with grief for his lost friend, "I believe I can decipher a little…" he paused, frowning in concentration, but Zhjaeve interrupted, her voice solemn.

"In ancient times the Guardian was created to protect Illefarn. If the time has come to dismantle our Great Instrument, you will be an agent of its destruction," she paused, leaning closer to make out the more faded second paragraph, "A creature of magic he became, an extension of the very Weave. Our enemies, the men of Netheril, feared to face him, so they turned their eyes to weaker prey. By the Guardian's sacrifice, we were kept safe. We thought the Weave eternal, an endless font of life from which the Guardian might draw. In this, we were wrong. The Weave failed, and the Guardian faced a choice. Allow himself to die, and leave Illefarn undefended, or draw life from another source. For the sake of his people the Guardian turned to the Weave's dark twin. And thus he became a creature of Shadow. He does not know time, and he does not know right from wrong; he knows only hatred, and the need to protect Illefarn. May this allow him the rest he so deserves."

"A pity someone's beaten us to getting here," Isaviel pointed out, gesturing towards the doors, "Didn't you say those were standing…and closed, Elanee?"

"Th-they were," the druid nodded, following the Moon Elf as the latter stepped into the next room, the light following them, "It was a duty of every druid of the Circle to check on the ruins above, and these cellars, if they passed by. I often did…and I always checked."

"Oh, Gods," Sand groaned as the light showed them the broken stand beyond.

A broad, flat-bottomed bowl of stone lay smashed upon the floor and liquid still glimmered across the grey tiles on the floor. To add to that the marble pedestal upon which it had once stood had been snapped clean in half for good measure. A tall statue stood at the opposite wall, depicting a cloaked woman holding a sword, but there appeared to be no actual function for this leviathan.

"Well that makes this…a little difficult," Isaviel sighed, just as a cold laugh interrupted, and the light Sand had summoned fizzed away, plunging the room into a darkness that the Moon Elf could not see through.

"Your fear and your grief tastes sweet," a low, hoarse voice told them with cold amusement, a blue flame bursting into life, blazing through the eyes of a gruesomely burned skull, seeming to allow it to float above shadow-cloaked shoulders, "Another has carried out the ritual before you, and when he broke the pedestal, he weakened the power of this place…"

"You lie!" Zhjaeve snarled, but the creature only laughed more.

"I am glad that we meet again this way. You will not kill me again, accursed little girl – even if you do succeed in your escape here, I will be reborn in the Vale of Meredelain, stronger than before…"

"The Vale of Meredelain is a sacred place!" Elanee cried, "The Elders would never let you…"

"Oh, but they did," the monster assured her.

"Who are you?" Isaviel snarled, her eyes at last adjusting to the darkness, and she could see her shuriken embedded in the creature's shoulder, shadows leaking from the wound. So he could at least be harmed.

"I once went by the name of Black Garius, but now I am a Reaver…and I will enjoy killing you."

He seemed to be alone, and that in itself was worrying – was he that confident of his own power in this form? That question was answered when the shuriken came spinning back to Isaviel's grasp, she threw them straight back at him, but they hit a wall of summoned energy and fell to the ground with impotent little clicks. Sand's attempts to cast an equivalent protective field flickered into being in front of them, but only long enough to deflect the first stream of crackling black energy which Garius sent towards them. Cursing, the half-Elvish wizard stumbled back as his magic failed, fear coming into his eyes.

"Khelgar, Shandra, to me!" Isaviel cried when she saw Elanee cowering in a corner, whimpering, her own attempts at shapeshifting having failed utterly, "He can be harmed, even if he can't die for long."

"But what do we do after that?" Elanee was fairly wailing, "Aldanon…"

"Shut up, you stupid girl!" Sand raged when she almost gave away their secret, only for Zhjaeve to give him a hard shove when another blast of energy almost collided with him. He seemed so scared and useless without his magic. So weak. Isaviel thought of Daeghun, of Merring…and her heart ached.

Pulling herself back to her feet after another sizable dodge, Isaviel threw herself forward, her daggers in her hands. Shandra shouted in wordless agreement and ran ahead with her, somehow taking on a bruising blast of magic and only staggering briefly, just as Khelgar did. Isaviel found herself grinning at the tenacity of these friends, even if they were stuck here. Aldanon had agreed to teleport them back through a dimensional door of some kind only once he sensed the burst of magic from the Pool of Purification. There was no longer a Pool of Purification. They would have to fight their way through, and hope that Aldanon realised what was happening…or they would be stumbling through the Mere blind, at the mercy of the King of Shadows's minions, hoping they could walk their way home.

Isaviel pulled herself up short when she saw the enormous globe of magic forming in Garius's hands, sparking with purple lightning, throwing herself down to the side, concentrating hard, and feeling her body dissolve into a shade of itself. The magic still burned when it tore through her, but it did no lasting damage – no more than any bruises at least. She saw Zhjaeve seated by the pedestal, cross-legged as before, chanting quietly, blue radiance permeating from her body and appearing to render her invulnerable.

"Your feeble attempts to avoid destruction are most…entertaining. With your death we will remove all his hopes of recovering the sword…as well as your own, naturally," Garius sounded completely at ease, even as another of Isaviel's shuriken cut through his body, creating another wound to join the others, shadows pooling like blood about his impossibly tall form.

His next blast of magic came too quickly to dodge, crashing against Isaviel's chest and sending her sprawling back towards the far wall. But she threw herself back instead, flipping and rolling, landing on her feet, and stood again. Determination shone in her eyes, and she caught Khelgar's impressed grin with a hard nod of her own. They would not die here…because she had her home to avenge.

* * *

The ranger was good, but he was not as good as he wanted others to believe. He could shoot with that bow as accurately as any master archer, and with far more power, but he was ill at ease in this training area, twitchily watching all the other practising men, glancing around at every ring of steel. He had never agreed to practice in melee combat with Mae'rillar, and the Drow found that telling; Bishop would only train with someone who he thought he could win against. It was a foolish tactic, the weapon master surmised, and the behaviour of someone who was out to get only what they wanted for themself. Not only that, but Bishop evidently relied on fear to win against those who had the edge on him in skill; he had a reputation for being fierce and brutal, and the glare he could perform for anyone watching would make it seem like those tales were true. They were, to an extent, but again nothing went so deep as the ranger wanted them to think…at least not when it came to fighting.

There were other things, more important things, that he did not want people to see, but Mae'rillar understood anyway, and the ranger knew it. That made him angry and mistrustful, and frustrated because he knew he could never win in a fair fight – or an unfair one, since the Drow had been trained in the most dangerous and subversive society of all the Realms; that of the Dark Elves.

He had happily beaten down a number of the training Greycloaks that day when he got back from his ranging, but Mae'rillar saw through that, too. The way the Drow understood it, Bishop was angry that Isaviel had gone to West Harbour, not because he had been excluded, but because he loved her – though he probably did not even know it himself, and would never admit it anyway – _and_ he did not trust her.

They had all noticed the darkness in the borderlands on their furthest rangings, the diseased cattle, the dying wildlife. They had seen the refugees on the roads, some heading for Longsaddle or Triboar, but most to Highcliff or Neverwinter. This was not just a bad winter, this was a curse on the land. There had been reports of settlements destroyed by shadows and the undead, razed in blue fire and dark magic spells. If this was happening north of the Mere, what was it like in West Harbour, the closest town to the King of Shadows's base of power?

Isaviel and the others had been gone for several hours, and that felt worrying, Mae'rillar realised. Elanee had assured them that the Illefarn ruins were only a short distance from the town, and Zhjaeve had not expected the ritual to take long. As if reading the Drow's mind, Bishop pulled back his bow even harder than before, snarling as he let the arrow fly to land in the bull's-eye, quivering with an audible hum as he approached to retrieve his projectiles.

Mae'rillar continued to watch, wrapped in his furs, one booted foot drawn up against the rim of the barrel upon which he sat, sharpening a tiny Underdark dagger. The keep loomed up to his right, most of its scaffolding taken down, snow piled high on the head of the gargoyles by the top windows. Men were patrolling the ramparts on the walls to his left, and others stood at attention on the roof of the keep itself, cloaks flapping, bows in hand. Their helmets glinted silver in the waning light, and Mae'rillar could make them out a little better without the wretched sun hurting his sensitive Drow eyes.

Most of these Greycloaks practicing so diligently in the yard were good fighters – good by human standards at least, and that was better than he had expected. The Many-Starred Cloaks were less impressive, and that was worrying, although Valarian was an experienced wizard. He also hated Mae'rillar, and refused to speak to him at any time, moving down the benches at the sight of the Drow. That was to be expected; any surface Elf would have been brought up to fear his kind. Many had good reason to, and Valarian was no exception, evidently. Qara was impressive, however, where all the others might not have been. Her power reminded him of his mother, and that was a little worrying. He hoped she had a little more sense than Matron Kilath, but he feared she did not.

Casavir, out in the centre of the yard now, was a powerful fighter, but his heavy armour encumbered him worryingly. He was panting and sweating even in the impressive cold, though his heavy hammer never ceased to swing with force. The man he faced, a burly but youthful new Greycloak recruit, probably a farmer from nearby who knew he could get porridge here where he would have none at home, was struggling. When he caught Mae'rillar looking, his flushed cheeks grew pale and he stumbled under the paladin's next swing.

"They fight like blundering fools," Bishop grunted as he came to stand by Mae'rillar's side to check the arrows he had retrieved – that bow of his was quite uniquely powerful, and it could blunt the arrowheads with ease.

"They do," Mae'rillar admitted benignly with a small shrug, glancing at the ranger, "You yourself would benefit from experience with a stronger opponent."

"Oh really? And you think you're the one to beat me?"

"No," the Drow did not bother to hide his smile, "I know I am. While Isaviel is not here…"

"They should be back by now," the ranger interrupted the thought, as Mae'rillar had intended him to, hiding his worry behind that glare with little success, "How do we know the King of Shadows hasn't chopped them up to pieces by now? Aldanon should bring them back, no matter what ritual it is they need to do. Hardly useful if they died trying. A one chance thing as well."

"Indeed. It would be w…"

"Ah, paladin, I heard you stomping over here louder than a swamp boar," Bishop sneered as Casavir approached, the latter's face set in his trademark serious expression, "Something you need? I figure whatever it is must be serious to give you the courage to come over here when your captain in shining armour's away. Maybe it's jealousy."

The paladin's face flickered tellingly, and suddenly this childish altercation became far more interesting for Mae'rillar. He had not spent much time yet bothering to understand the interactions between Isaviel's companions, but he had already noticed the tension between Casavir and Bishop the moment he had seen them. It was made easier to observe as the paladin never so much as acknowledged the Drow, as if he was not sure which moral code to superimpose upon him. He did not know about the Thieves' Guild in absolute terms, but he clearly suspected – that was not enough, however, for he bore no ill will towards Neeshka. Something in his understanding of life meant that he could not force his expectations beyond what he had been told of the Drow in his youth; Neeshka might be half demon, but Mae'rillar was fully Drow.

"It has nothing to do with her…"

"Oh really?" Bishop's tone was painfully mocking, "That so? Guess I called it wrong then – but the thing is, when I shoot an arrow it doesn't miss. And I never said you were jealous about _her_ – though I did mean it. You just gave me more proof, paladin. Where's your honour now? Aren't you supposed to be warming Shandra's bed for her?"

"I am watching you, Bishop," Casavir managed to choke out, though he had flushed red to his roots – and it was not even from the cold. Mae'rillar choked on a laugh, continuing his work of sharpening his various daggers, but watching, unnoticed now, "I do not trust you and neither should Isaviel."

"Sounds like good advice to me," Bishop shrugged, smirking and leaning back against the wall with a deceptively languid gesture, his hand resting tellingly on his sword hilt, "Same thing I told her about you…"

"What do you mean?" the paladin demanded, somehow managing to look even more scandalised.

"Well, you can distrust me all you want – and don't doubt that she does – but I'm still a league's throw more honest with myself than you : some paladin who can't figure out how he feels about a woman or two. It's the problem with you holy warriors – and why you're such trouble on the battlefield. All that pent-up frustration, when all you really need to admit is that you need a drink from a wench's cups just like the rest of us."

"Do _not_ speak of her that way!" Casavir exclaimed, and Bishop laughed as honestly as Mae'rillar had ever heard him – the Drow was having a hard time keeping back his own mirth at the paladin's expression.

"Who? Shandra or Isaviel? You want them both, but you won't keep one and you'll never get the other," Bishop drawled, but his eyes were sharp as he watched the paladin's fists clench, his own hand closing around his sword hilt, "Come on, admit it. Shandra's just there to keep you distracted; Isaviel will never let you fu…"

"Bishop if you do not cease your abhorrent slander…"

"You'll do what? Hit me?" the ranger sneered, pulling his sword halfway from its sheathe in threat – though Mae'rillar knew he would not really attack unless the paladin did first, "I'd break your jaw."

"Hey!" Neeshka interrupted, hurtling around the corner, her eyes wild and excited, "Zhjaeve managed to contact Aldanon and they've got back but someone's already done the ritual and there was…some kind of shadow monster thing who attacked them and they're safe now but…"

The Tiefling's words were coming out in a never-ending stream until Bishop stepped forward and took hold of her by the arm. That did make Mae'rillar stand, his expression hard; the ranger saw and let Neeshka go with a sneer. She glared at him and put her hands on her blades in warning but he just raised his eyebrows mockingly.

"Where are they, demongirl?" he demanded as if they never had played cards so amicably at The Sunken Flagon, and she never had been his employer in Neverwinter.

"In Isaviel's quarters," Neeshka sniffed derisively, glancing over at Mae'rillar in disbelief as the ranger stalked away, "What's with him?"

The Drow just shrugged, smiling to her as he stood to pull her towards him and kiss her cheek. As he did so, he glanced towards Casavir and saw that the paladin was still standing by the barrels, shaking in embarrassment and rage.

* * *

"Know that we must find the one who carried out the ritual," Zhjaeve was saying, leaning forwards across the table, staring hard at Isaviel's back.

"That is true enough," Aldanon agreed, nodding genially, "But we need to uncover a way of killing these Shadow Reavers – in my experience, no one is invincible. Not unless you're Tethtoril in Candlekeep, and I would argue he's a special example because…"

Isaviel was hardly listening, watching the flames dancing in the hearth, one hand pressed to the mantelpiece in her sitting room. The others had gathered around the table, but only the Githzerai and Aldanon were talking. The rest of them were finding it hard to focus beyond what they had seen. Out there in the Mere survival had been the ultimate concern; now they were back in comfortable, warm, wintery Crossroad Keep, everything seemed too real. The Moon Elf found herself turning Merring's shuriken over and over in her free hand, not daring to look at it. Her face ached from the effort of not crying, and there were bruises all over her body.

Aldanon had pulled them back almost as soon as Zhjaeve had managed to make contact with him, and it could not have been timelier. The Moon Elf could still feel the cold grasp of the Shadow Reaver, Black Garius, as his icily burning fingers pressed into the skin of her throat. When the magic had pulled them all free, each carrying an apparently mundane token to link them to the spell – hers had been a knight-shaped playing piece – she had been freed from that compromising situation. But Garius's magically tenacious fingers had pulled some of her skin away too and she was left with four angry red finger marks on her neck, and a pathetically bleeding cut where his thumb had been. The area around it had appeared to be a little blackened – like it had charred….or like frostbite. Zhjaeve had been quick to apply a cooling salve which took away most of the pain, as soon as they had arrived from Sand's house at Isaviel's rooms. It had numbed the pain a little, but only on the outside. Her heart ached, and her stomach would not stop roiling. Merring, Tarmas…

A hard knock on the door jolted Isaviel out of her reverie and she glanced over her shoulder, briefly seeing Sand, Shandra and Khelgar slumped around the circular table watching Zhjaeve and Aldanon with sullen passivity. They barely seemed to have responded to the knock, and momentarily she thought she had imagined it, until it came again and she heard Neeshka's manic talking. The Tiefling had not heard about the true state of West Harbour yet and she was still relieved to see them back safe. It would appear that all those companions she had left behind had started to find the delay a little unsettling.

"Come in," Isaviel called weakly, looking away again. At least these flames in the hearth were red and not blue or green.

She heard the scraping of a chair, and hurried footsteps, as well as the tell-tale collision of two bodies hugging – Casavir and Shandra, from the clank of plate mail. Their following murmuring attested to that. Neeshka was talking quickly, but not so quickly as before – the silence was as telling as Casavir's clanking; Mae'rillar had come with the Tiefling, a calming influence on her. The scrape of another chair and Elanee's soft weeping, following by her hurried escaping footsteps denoted her leave-taking.

"I'm surprised to see you all so full of laughter," Bishop noted sarcastically, and the words grated enough with Isaviel that her hand clenched automatically, closing around the shuriken in her hand and drawing blood, "My, my, Captain, you've gone and got yourself a few more scars."

She ignored those words, though unseen her hand closed more tightly around the shuriken.

"Enough, Bishop," Shandra told him coldly, "She's suffered enough today without having to deal with you, too."

Isaviel could imagine how Neeshka had paused, probably patting the woman on the back, but not sure whether or not to approach the Moon Elf as well. She was glad that the Tiefling refrained. A quick glance showed that Bishop was still standing in the doorway, glowering at Shandra now.

"And who are you to c…"

"Bishop!" Casavir exclaimed rather suddenly – almost as if he was afraid the ranger might give something away.

"I'm glad you're all ok," Neeshka tried to sound cheerful, beginning to catch on to the serious air in the room, but that just made Isaviel grit her teeth.

"We may have lost much this day," Zhjaeve told her softly, "But we have learned a little more, and it may yet bring us closer to defeating the King of Shadows. I believe the Reaver was attempting to kill Isaviel to remove the threat the shards pose to its master, but thanks to Aldanon it failed. And we now know that someone else is hunting him, for Garius mentioned that not only had someone performed the ritual before us, but someone else is also seeking the shards. This is good news, and it gives us further leverage, just as Isaviel's safety has perpetuated our hope…"

"Well, I for one think we should leave the lass be awhile," Khelgar noted pointedly at last, and his kindness brought a sad smile to Isaviel's lips as she heard him standing, "Out – all o' ye, out."

Two more chairs scraped, and seven pairs of feet stomped off. The silent eighth left, too.

"The ranger wanted to speak to you alone," Sand's voice noted softly from where he still sat at the table.

"I don't doubt it," Isaviel shrugged, still not turning, her voice wobbling just that little bit more, "He only wants one thing, and it's not to comfort me."

"Do you really think that is all he wants?" Sand sighed, standing now and reaching her side, prying her hand from around the shuriken and hissing when he saw the damage to her palm, pulling the weapon from her grasp.

"No," her voice was so small when she said the words, watching him place the shuriken gently on the rim of the mantelpiece, feeling his hand resting lightly against her back, turning a little to look into his grey eyes.

"Do you wish it to be all he wants? Is it all you want?" there it was, that disappointed tone.

"No," she admitted, just as weakly, and he smiled kindly, though his eyes remained sad.

"Do you want to talk?" _About West Harbour._

"No," she denied, shifting a little to lean her head against his shoulder as his arm wound around her waist, "Do you?"

"No," Sand agreed softly, "But I think we have to. This is not the time to hold in what grieves you, lest it come to strike at you when you need your composure the most."

"Alright. But I don't want to talk about death."

* * *

"It sounds to me as though you had just as much fun tormenting the people of West Harbour as you did working for Moire in Neverwinter," Sand had noted, leaning his elbows against the lower part of the crenellations when they stopped the their walk along the battlements around the bailey.

There were quite a few guards on duty at this time, carrying torches against the early darkness of winter, heavily armoured and covered in furs and long cloaks against the cold. At least no snow had fallen this day, and it was just the icy wind they had to contend with. Out here the world was so still, but for the sounds of the castle itself, that Isaviel could have found it very easy to tell herself what had happened to West Harbour was just a bad dream. But Sand had been very adamantly against this, and they had taken a long walk around the castle and its grounds, eventually coming to these battlements in the shadow of the gatehouse, to talk of her old home and her life there. It turned out the only time he had been to the place was during the Battle of West Harbour, and he had never met Merring, but Tarmas had been as a brother to him. Contrary to his own advice he did not talk much of his old friend, but Isaviel realised he was not the one here with a problem showing their grief.

At last she had cried a little, and they had stood there while she wept silently, arms wrapped around each other, staring out at the tents and the trees, and the many stars. Soon it would be new year, and Kana had advised that the keep hold the expected festival; Elanee and Shandra both worshipped Chauntea, goddess of the earth, so that should please them. For herself, the Moon Elf would probably sneak away from the revelries to hunt out in the wilderness alone: her own prayer for vengeance to her mother's god, Fenmarel Mestarine, the Lone Wolf.

Kana's loud voice in the distance and the groan of the portcullis being drawn up in the gatehouse beside them startled Isaviel and Sand into movement; they pulled apart quickly, both feeling suddenly embarrassed for their closeness. The wizard reached the other side of the walkway first, peering down over the wall, and when the Moon Elf joined him she saw that his eyes had gone wide, his mouth hanging open just a little – but he did not look angry or shocked… he looked happy. When she followed his gaze, her own feelings were a little more mixed, guiltily wiping the tears from her cheeks, shivering against the renewed pain across her throat.

"And who are you to demand an audience with our captain?" Kana was asking abrasively, standing directly in front of the gatehouse so that Isaviel had to lean at an uncomfortable angle to see to whom she was speaking.

"I am her…foster-father, and I come in aid of her cause. And your own, I think," Daeghun's voice answered coolly.

The slight form of her foster-father stepped more clearly into view, but Kana only watched him doubtfully, her arms crossed in front her, a frown lining her forehead. Daeghun's expression was not visible, and it would have been unreadable anyway, Isaviel knew. His cloak and boots were mud stained, and she recognised the rudimentary patches he had made on them during his travels, intended to last him until such time as he could make some new ones for himself. His bow, a familiar weapon of dark Duskwood, was slung across his back and he had two full quivers of arrows over his shoulders as well. Other than that he travelled without a pack of food or a change of clothes. All he had with him were his bow and arrows, a longsword and a pair of skinning knives, along with a few pouches on his belt probably containing a good strike a-light and medicinal herbs. Perhaps some Mereberries.

"Daeghun!" Sand called, and it was Kana who looked up first in surprise and confusion, while Isaviel headed for the nearby steps.

"You know this man?"

"He is no liar, and yes – we are old friends, Lieutenant."

"Sand," Daeghun responded, his green eyes narrowing in what might have been a small smile as he looked up at the wizard, now following Isaviel's path down the steps, "It is good to see you old friend. The years have been kind to you."

"And you," the wizard responded with a guiltlessly tearful smile, breaching the distance between them and pulling the Elf into a tight hug which he had evidently been braced for, patting his friend on the back uncomfortably, "It is most definitely good to see you safe. We have just witnessed West Harbour's horrors for ourselves…"

"Foster-daughter," Daeghun acknowledged, prising himself from Sand's grasp and looking towards Isaviel, who hung back, watching the pair warily, "The roads are full of talk of you. It is hardly a low profile which you have maintained."

"Turns out I had no choice. It's disappointing to see you too, father," she responded icily – of all the things he could have said to her, he chose to berate her instead, "Merring is dead…"

"And so is everyone else. I warned them, and they did not listen. It has been over five tendays since they fell, but the shadow-magic keeps their corpses lying out there to see. They are apparitions, nothing more. What you doubtlessly saw is but a shade of the truth."

"Daeghun…" Sand started to object, but the Elf ignored him, stepping past the wizard and towards Isaviel.

"I see the moon has been at your back," Daeghun did not sound contrite, but it was as close as he would get, "But you do not look well, Isaviel…"

"All the more for you to celebrate then," the Moon Elf suggested, and saw Sand shaking his head in disbelief, shooing Kana away as he headed back towards his house, "Where have you been?"

"The Mere has grown dark and many villages needed help in leaving before it was too late. And I have sought the scent on the breeze, to learn of the dark hunter – the King of Shadows," Daeghun responded calmly, as if she never had aimed to rile him, "More can still be learned in the Mere, but I have discovered something and had to tell you at once."

"And what is that?"

"The druids of the Mere still live. I had thought them lost, but…"

"Am I supposed to care?" Isaviel sneered, "Was it them or was it you who sent Elanee to babysit me?"

"Both, as it turns out," the Elf shrugged, "Does she still travel with you? She will want to hear this, even if you do not."

"Then she shall," Isaviel sighed, waving over one of the guards, "Take my…father…to the hall. See that he sits with Elanee. They must have words."

* * *

Isaviel was not surprised to see Bishop standing by the fire in her bedroom when she returned to her chambers, at last thinking about changing out of her Mere-stained tunic. The ranger was rather pointedly looking through her journal, the one she kept to keep track of the castle's affairs, and he gave a slight grunt when she closed the door after herself.

"Hardly worth the paper and ink, if you ask me," Bishop informed, dropping the book onto the floor beside him as he turned to watch her crossing the room, barely acknowledging him.

The mirror showed her new injuries to her; Zhjaeve had left her some of the salve on the table by the mirror stand, and she began to add some more to her neck, hissing when she touched her damaged skin. It looked bad, though not quite so bad as it had before…

"Isaviel," the ranger growled, one hand sliding around her waist and coming to rest at her hip, pulling her back against him, taking the bottle of salve from her and putting it back on the table, "You hated that village. Don't let them persuade you into their weak sentimentality."

"What would you know about 'that village' or 'sentimentality'?" Isaviel demanded, watching him in the mirror as he pushed aside the neck of her tunic, bending to kiss her shoulder. A moment later his eyes met hers in the reflection.

"More than you might think, obviously," he told her, kissing her neck softly now – and although she hissed initially, she did not move away.

"Tell me," she murmured as he moved to her other side to press his lips to the other marks on her neck.

"My home village, Redfallow's Watch, was destroyed – burned to the ground, and everyone died," he whispered it into her ear, his breath tickling her skin, and there was a hint of menace in his words.

"By whom?" though somehow she already knew the answer.

"By me."

A chill ran up her spine even as she turned around in his arms, standing on her tiptoes so that when she spoke her lips almost brushed against his. She felt foolish for it, but she found there was a power to be experienced in knowing he only wanted to kiss her, when he could be so cruel.

"Why would you do that?"

"I hated that village," he snarled, looking away, his grip on her tightening, "When the Luskans asked me to destroy one of the little border settlements, I chose that one. I'd_ always_ hated it, so I took my chance to be rid of it…but they weren't supposed to die. When I started the fire I tried to warn them, but no one would listen – it wasn't like they'd missed me," he paused a moment when Isaviel kissed him for that, a long, slow kiss that he followed through, leaning down to keep the contact as she dropped back to her normal height, pulling her closer.

He followed her when she took his hand, allowing her to pull him with her when she sat on the rug in front of the fire. She started to unlace the tattered velvet over-tunic she wore, but winced as she peeled it from her shoulders. The white shirt beneath it was stained with dried blood. When had she been wounded there? She wondered, until she saw that it had come from the old scar over her heart. Amidst all the pains and suffering of the day, she had barely noticed that newest – and oldest – wound. She shoved Bishop onto his back playfully when he moved to help mockingly, but he pulled her on top of him even before her hands had moved from his chest. He got his wish and removed the over-tunic for her, while she pinned him there with a knee at each side of his waist.

"How did it go wrong?" she asked, wincing again as the last part of the lacing came free and the ranger pulled the fabric from both her shoulders.

"Well, instead of clearing the town when I burned it, and killing my Luskan 'masters'…they all died. A few of the Luskans got some lucky shots at me, and I was lying there, burned and bleeding to death, the whole village burning, everyone dead – all my family, everyone they knew, and all the Luskan bastards as well, when Duncan found me. The fool must have seen the smoke and come to take a look. He would not let me escape this world at last, and made a point of healing me…"

"That's what these scars are," Isaviel understood at last.

Running a hand over the burns along his neck and shoulder, she leaned down to kiss them, feeling him sigh beneath her and smiling against him for that. She staying close, her head resting over his heart, listening to it beating, as steady and slow as any heart…there was no way to know it was so cold.

"Yes," his voice was gruff and just as hard as ever, but one arm was heavy across her lower back, and his free hand tugged absently as her long plait of hair, "And then when I was healed, your uncle told me that I owed him. Said that he knew what I'd done, that I was indebted to him. Made a new prison out of words to keep me chained to this life, and I didn't want to let him get the satisfaction of winning that bluff, so I always had that debt hanging over my head."

"My foster-father, Daeghun, always made me feel like that. Like I owed him for being alive. Of all the people who died at West Harbour, I wish he had most of all, instead of Merring and Tarmas."

Bishop watched her with blazing eyes for a long moment when she raised her head to look at him, then rolled over so that they switched places, kissing her hard until she sighed and put her arms around his neck.

* * *

Isaviel was awoken early the next morning by someone hammering on the door of her bedroom, and while she was still trying to orientate herself Bishop groaned in annoyance, pressing a foot against her lower back and pushing her over the side of the bed that way. Swearing loudly at him and whoever was knocking on the door, she scrambled to her feet, scrabbling about in one of the chests, eventually finding a grey tunic – _another _velvet one, cursed be Kana. Pulling it on, it took a little longer to find some leggings, and she had just hopped into them, her tunic only half-buttoned, when she opened the door to Kana.

"Captain," the lieutenant began immediately, only to pause and blush just a little when Bishop appeared behind Isaviel, dressed only in his trousers, "Aldanon has been asking for you since before dawn. He claims to have found the location of some haven or other. Should I send a scouting party out to acquire what you need…"

"No, Kana," Isaviel snapped, "Gather my friends – and you know the company I mean. We will meet in the library. I need all of them with me, because when _I _leave, I need to know I can win if we have to fight."

"As you will, Captain," Kana sighed, already turning away.

"And do not fear, Lieutenant, I will leave you with some objectives to reach before I am back. We wouldn't want you needing to run the place with your own ideas and opinions now, would we?"


	27. Blood Wars, Blood Ties

"I'm…not sure whether to be i-impressed…or frightened," Shandra sighed as they crested the steep, rocky rise in the road, deep in the eastern foothills of the Crags, struggling against the bitter wind and the first few large, feathery flakes of real northern snowfall.

"I'd say we'd best be on our guard, lass," Khelgar offered as diplomatically as he could as he struggled up the steepest, iciest section of this poorly worn road, icicles forming in his beard.

"Agreed," Casavir nodded from where he stood close to a rocky outcropping, looking out over the unexpected valley below, his hammer a pale blue in the bright light, his heavy armour entirely obscured by multiple cloaks, "This does not appear to be the haven of an eccentric, humble wizard. It looks like a fortified castle."

"And a magically fortified one, at that," Sand added, reaching Khelgar's side and panting from the effort.

"The snow down there must be two feet deep, there's no way we'll get through that any time today," Qara complained at Isaviel's side.

The Moon Elf could not disagree with any of them, staring down at the neatly rectangular valley below. It looked more like an abandoned quarry, one filling steadily with pristine white snow. The mountains of the Crags rose up to form its far side, the foothills rising in evident progression to either end, jagged and partially forested. Every tree hung heavy and wilting with snow, just like the forest which they had trudged through to get to this point. Neverwinter Wood had seemed like a tropical jungle compared to this, thanks to the hot springs of the south western curve of the Crags. Here, in the north east, they were closer to Mirabar than they were to Luskan, and closer to the Lurkwood than they were to Neverwinter Wood. This felt like alien land, and Isaviel had never been so cold in her life.

Of course, the object of her friends' fascinations and fears lay across the valley, halfway down its length, an ugly, artless fortress in an undoubtedly artificially blasted alcove of ancient grey stone. It had been seemingly hewn into, and out of, the face of the dwarf mountain ahead – at these altitudes the mountain's height was deceptive; low clouds still brushed its summit. There were no ramparts or windows to be seen, but there was a path leading up to this sprawling construction, half-birthed out of stone, and Isaviel could see a set of huge doors at its front. Beside them stood a hulking statue - almost formless but vaguely humanoid; she found it a little unsettling even at this distance.

"Are you even sure this is Ammon Jerro's haven?" Qara groaned petulantly, and Sand stared at her in disbelief.

"How bad do you think my map-reading skills are, girl?" he demanded, gesturing with one gloved hand rather wildly, "The place is enormous!"

"Yeah, right, enormous enough to not even be on the map," Neeshka huffed from her place crouched on one of the rocks branching out from the cliff-face ahead, into which were hewn some terrifyingly steep stairs.

Bishop was just pulling himself back up these steps and paused at the next platform down from Neeshka's to peer up at the group, an arm thrown up to shield his eyes from the snow. A moment later he waved them down impatiently.

"It's a good job you didn't bring any horses with you, oh esteemed captain, or we'd be leaving them here to die cold deaths with the druid," he called.

"Well then it would have been more of a pity that we didn't bring Grobnar to keep her company," Neeshka suggested, grinning when the druid blushed and cringed, the Tiefling standing quickly and beginning to hop down the steps as though they were not thirty feet above the ground.

"Or maybe the Githzerai – if she was here they could bore each other to death before the cold got them," Qara added, sniggering.

"Well it's fortunate that I'm not staying up here," Elanee snapped, but that only made the sorcerer laugh more.

"Just ignore her, Elanee," Shandra sighed, patting the druid on the shoulder, but the younger woman sniffed angrily and pulled away, heading after Sand and Khelgar who had already begun to descend after the other two.

"Fine then," Shandra grumbled to herself, wiping the snow out of her eyes while Casavir passed her, gently touching her elbow, "Don't accept kindness," she paused when she reached Isaviel's side, taking one look at the Moon Elf's expression and nodding to herself, "I know, I'm just as surprised as you are that any relative of mine could built something like that. The lack of artistry clearly runs in the blood, but neither me nor my mother ever had a hope at making a basket, let alone building a fortress with our own magic."

"It seems we both have some questions about our ancestry," Isaviel smiled, hoisting her pack more securely onto her shoulders and pointing at the steps, "After you. Who knows, you might find some answers."

* * *

Qara had been right – even with her fiery spells to aid them, it had taken an alarming length of time to reach the sheltered road leading up towards the building. It was already dark by that time, though it was not four hours after noon, and the bright moon was thwarted by scudding clouds. Elanee had taken on her owl form to combat all of these problems and perched on the lip of the huge alcove high above them, staring down with enormous reflective eyes as at last the group left the snows behind, panting and sweating from the effort.

Isaviel had the advantage on them all for this, for as an Elf she was naturally agile in the snow, to the point where it was rare that her feet ever broke its surface. Khelgar had suffered the most, and while the Moon Elf stalked ahead, he had to lean against a wall, the icicles all melted into his beard, gasping for breath. He had borne the brunt of the struggle, acting as a snowplough for Neeshka and Sand, while Casavir did the same for Shandra until the latter had complained and walked on for herself. Bishop had been happy to let the others do the work for him, his bow in his hand and his eyes always watchful. He clearly did not trust this place, and Isaviel could not blame him. No one built their haven in the shape of an ugly fortress unless they had something to hide, or someone to fight. And probably, Ammon Jerro had possessed both issues, from the extent of the building.

"I would approach with caution if I were you, my dear," Sand warned rather dryly, all but limping over to Isaviel's side, and gesturing towards the enormous humanoid statue by the door, "That may not resemble my feeble little clay golem much, but it is off a similar cast."

"Gods," Isaviel hissed, stilling immediately, staring at the towering guardian of jointed stone with a new understanding, "I should have realised. It's a golem? It's not armed…"

"Yes. And need a stone golem be armed, when it could crush you in an instant? Give it a wide berth when we approach. If it comes to a fight, the magic of Qara and I will be useless against it."

"Duly noted," Isaviel nodded formally as the others started to regroup around them, Elanee swooping down to the ground and returning to her fragile, many-cloaked form smoothly.

"So who's talking to the man on the door?" Bishop inquired sardonically, and Isaviel rolled her eyes.

"Evidently not you, Prince Charming," Isaviel shot back, looking immediately over at Shandra, "I do hope the stories you were told about giving a pint of fresh Jerro blood weren't true, but something tells me you're the only chance we've got of getting in there without a fight."

"A-alright," Shandra nodded, drawing herself up with a deep breath, glancing over anxiously towards the golem, "Let's do this before I lose my nerve."

Casavir sent her a calming smile as she and Isaviel moved ahead, the others following at a short distance. As the Moon Elf and the woman came closer to the looming gates, the golem moved, its great limbs screeching against their sockets at first, a sound which dimmed to a dull grinding as it lumbered in front of the doors. Once there, it stood its ground, arms hanging by its sides. Dwarfed in front of it stood a little pedestal – stopping at about ten strides from this appliance, Isaviel could see with a little dread that there was a hole at its centre. Blood, then.

"You come armed, though you do not come in threat," its voice took a moment to grow, deep and resonant, filling the whole cavernous alcove, the ground rumbling beneath their feet, "This haven is a refuge and my master will brook no interruption."

"But your master is long dead, golem," Isaviel responded automatically, raising her voice perhaps needlessly, "And you are right, we do not wish to fight. We do require passage inside, however."

"To enter, there must be sacrifice."

"Oh, gods," Shandra whispered, turning pale and looking towards Isaviel, gripping the Moon Elf's arm tightly.

"What sacrifice?" Isaviel asked steadily.

"A sacrifice of blood."

"Don't make me do this, please don't say I have to do this…" Shandra groaned, "I'm not giving away my life for…"

"How _much_ blood? Any blood?"

"Only a drop is necessary, though it must be fresh, and a part of the life of Ammon Jerro."

"Oh," Shandra breathed a sigh of relief, letting go of Isaviel, "Well, if that's all it takes…then I suppose if this doesn't work, we can always try something else, and I'll still be ok, right?"

"Right," Isaviel smiled tightly.

"You do not need to do this if you do not wish to, Shandra," Casavir reminded gently, coming over to join them, but she shook her head, and Isaviel's heart warmed at the woman's willingness – and her inability for his gallantry to weaken that resolve.

"We've been travelling over a tenday for this. I'm not going to fail you all now just for a little blood. A pint maybe, but not this."

"Then we thank you, Shandra," the paladin told her firmly, with such stilted formality, and when she looked to him again her smile was sad.

"Casavir, when we get out of this, we've got to talk about some things," she told him, placing a hand against his arm and kissing his cheek lightly – to his credit, he caught her chin and kissed her lips with at least a hint of emotion, and she looked pleased when she stepped away from him.

"Ready?" Isaviel asked, trying not to sound mocking and failing utterly.

"Ready," Shandra grinned, stepping forward up to the pedestal, uncontested by the golem, "In here, right?" she asked the construct awkwardly, extending a hand over the hole in the pedestal.

"That is the correct action," the golem agreed.

Shandra wasted no time, nicking her thumb with her dagger and letting a drop or two fall into the hole in the pedestal. Instantly the golem moved out of the way, and the gates began to shriek on their hinges, slowly beginning to rumble open, rather disappointingly revealing a much smaller door, the true entrance.

"Right, well…there," Shandra looked back at the others, "It's done – that was a lot easier than I'd expected, Isaviel…now what? I suppose we're just going in…"

She did not even get a chance to finish her sentence before a flash of magical energy engulfed her and she disappeared. Several of the others rushed forward, but there was nothing they could do – she had already gone.

"Great Tyr!" Casavir exclaimed, his hammer rather uselessly at the ready, "Shandra! Shandra!"

"I'm afraid she has been temporarily removed from our company," Sand noted, "Some…teleportation spell."

"All the more reason to hurry," Isaviel told them firmly, gesturing for the rest to follow, "Come on, let's go in and see what we can find. With any luck, she's just beyond that door."

But of course she was not. Instead, they entered a dark room, reminiscent of a wizard's study, with bookcases lining the bare stone walls and an elaborate mosaic on the floor, depicting an epic fight between the monstrous forms of devils and demons. There was a familiar winged figure standing across the room, his back to them as he continued to flick through the dog-eared pages of a small leather-bound notebook. Beside him, in a little bowl, lay a tiny silver shard, glinting in the feeble reddish candlelight.

"Ah, Wild One, you have returned to me," Mephasm sounded pleased, his deep voice echoing ominously in the room, turning his head only slightly to send Isaviel a knowing smirk – as the door behind her companions slammed shut…and sank away into the stone with a horrible shriek, "Greetings, my friend. I would say it is a surprise to see you, but alas the long ages in Baator have ensured that nothing surprises me anymore."

"Demon! Though you may trap us here with you, we will not listen to your schemes! Return Shandra to us, or pay the price!" Casavir fairly roared.

"I am aligned with the baatezu, not tanar'ri, paladin," Mephasm corrected, looking back at his book and laughing coldly, "You may call no devil 'demon' nor any demon 'devil'. It is law."

"Where is Shandra?" Isaviel asked, stalking closer, though Neeshka tried to claw her back, seeing that there was a door in the left wall, a little ajar.

"Who is this Shandra you care so greatly for? Do you mean the one who passed through here before you? She is far safer than you for now, Fair One, though it grieves me to tell you so. She was greatly afraid…and I wonder…how did you get into this place, when only one of Ammon Jerro's blood may enter that way?"

As she drew closer, Isaviel saw the runes carved into the ground in a large semi-circle across half of the room, evidently trapping the devil in place – the shard with him. He turned at last as she came closer, his impossibly beautiful face showing his amusement without shame, his snake-like eyes holding her gaze when he approached.

"She is his granddaughter," Isaviel told him warily, but he just smiled condescendingly when her hands rested on her dagger hilts.

"Then for once you know something that I did not. But, if what you say is true then she will soon be in great peril, with my fellow prisoners…"

"We are not liars, devil," Casavir snapped, hefting his hammer, and Sand sighed dramatically, approaching Isaviel.

Bishop was already by her side, and when she began to step forward, unable to look away from Mephasm's yellow eyes with their sharp red lashes, the ranger caught her wrist and pulled her to face him. Blinking up at him in confusion, Isaviel blushed, shaking her head to clear her thoughts and then looked back to Mephasm with a glare. He held up his hands in mock defence and smiled slowly, the black, red-fringed feathers of his wings ruffling a little as he shifted them.

"I freed you and yet here you are, trapped," the Moon Elf noted, "I think you have some explaining to do."

"You are correct," the devil acceded with a nod, "This is not the best of circumstances – you do indeed find me trapped once more against my will and this time my cage is larger and more secure," his red-tipped fangs showed when he smiled wolfishly, a wide smile that showed many perfect white teeth, and looked somehow…cruel and seductive at once.

"Don't listen to 'im, lass," Khelgar growled, mirroring Casavir's aggressive posture.

"Never did you speak more wisely, Khelgar," Sand agreed, reaching Isaviel's side and sharing a concerned expression with Bishop over the top of her head. Mephasm watched them with patient amusement.

"You come with more friends this time," the devil continued, "Fascinating, how you stand divided."

He gestured first at the groups which had formed at either side of the room; Isaviel, flanked by Sand and Bishop, and Casavir standing with Khelgar, Neeshka staring at the devil from behind them with glowing red eyes.

"…and outcast."

Then he indicated Qara and Elanee, keeping a fair distance between them, both staring at him with a mixture of awe and fear, though for rather different reasons. They kept themselves closest to the wall where the door had stood, and did not move.

"Answer my question," Isaviel demanded, and Mephasm's eyes flashed.

"Such determination," he mocked, folding his arms across his equally heavily muscled chest, a fact betrayed by his unashamedly thin black tunic, barely laced at all, "So I presume you are wondering why you found me first in the lair of the Githyanki and now again in this place. The dark warlock who summoned the Succubi you first saw attacking me has made this place his lair. From a laboratory at the centre he commands the energy which he siphons from the demons and devils held captive here."

"Who is this warlock? What is his name?" Sand asked shrewdly, but Mephasm ignored him.

"And, Fair One, if you are implying I have been less than honest with you, you are correct. The warlock is – and always has been – the master of both the wretch Qaggoth-Yeg and I, as well as the others here. It was him and not the Githyanki who summoned me to their lair, to block them off from him once and for all while he went about his business. But I had other ideas, and saw my way to escape from him when you arrived. Alas, he found me again in Nessus and this time has ensured that my bonds are far less easily breakable. Thanks to the magic of this place, only one of Ammon Jerro's blood can free me – it appears you have offered me my…salvation…again."

"Gods, Isaviel," Sand hissed, "What are you doing consulting with a fallen Deva who hails from Nessus?"

"You should know that your blood is more like mine than your pet wizard's, Beautiful One. I met your father once…many millennia ago. He smelled of death, and he broke his vows, but you…have potential."

While Sand gawped at him, and Isaviel's blood ran cold, the devil ran a hand pointedly over the book he had been reading.

"_The book does not lie. I see him in you, and his curse. Should we ever meet after this day, I will tell you more, and the book will be yours_," his words rang in her ears, though his mouth did not move, "I have told you all that I can of my master – I fear I may have said too much."

"But you will help me find Shandra? And get to that laboratory? I think I need to have a few words with your master," Isaviel added grimly, pulling her wrist free from Bishop's tightening grip, ignoring the distrustful mutterings of Elanee, and the indignant protestations of Casavir.

"Of course I will," Mephasm nodded, still with that horrid smile, "You will need to win the favour of two more of my fellow captives, though they may be somewhat less…amenable. You see, we are the key into and out of this place, but our master knows that the others are always warring amongst themselves, thus ensuring it is all but impossible for an intruder to get to his laboratory."

"What can you tell me of these others?"

"There is Blooden, the leader among the Succubi – she is as violent as she is seductive; be careful with her, especially with so many hot-blooded males around you," his eyes drifted tellingly from Bishop to Casavir and back again, "The other is Baalbisan, a Balor, so confident in his power, and he especially scorns the presence of females. I suspect you could teach him a lesson or two about that, Wild One."

Those words, spoken so suggestively, made Bishop growl in warning, but that only caused a derisive laugh to come from Isaviel, and the ranger looked momentarily like he might hit her. His other hand closed around the hilt of his sword, pulling it halfway from it scabbard, but Isaviel raised a doubtful eyebrow at him, resting her hand on his, and he took a step back. He was still raging, if silently, as harmless as he was ever going to be.

"I see that one learned quickly," Mephasm pointed out, rolling his eyes at Bishop's behaviour.

"Are there others?" Isaviel demanded of him, and he nodded amiably enough.

"There are several more, although I doubt all of them will wish to receive you. Two such are Qaggoth-Yeg, of Yogguul, and her son, Zaxis, a pair of Hezrou. Avoid them if you can – I am sure you have learned your lesson far quicker than she did."

"_That_ was female?" Qara exclaimed, "Gods, and I thought Shandra was manly."

"Do not speak of Shandra so rudely, Qara," Casavir commanded automatically.

"I never said it was an insult," the sorcerer shrugged.

"Koraboros, a one-time ally of mine…he is a Pit Fiend of the Hells, of Cania, and he may be able – and willing – to aid you. Hezebel, the leader of the Erinyes, also."

"And what do you gain from this?" Isaviel asked, narrowing her eyes doubtfully – if there was one thing that was common knowledge about both devils and demons, it was that pacts with them never came without a price.

"Wise, Wild One," Mephasm smiled, "But…suffice to say that it should not trouble you. We all want revenge for our captivity. You could offer that to us. I will perform my part of the bargain, and then you must go – and quickly. Be on your guard. Most here use their minions to fight for them, and provide their entertainment, though such activity is useless; they plot and scheme endlessly with each other, because there is nothing else to do."

He stepped back, raising his hands, already glowing with red light, and looked up at the ceiling, whispering an arcane phrase. Following his gaze, Isaviel saw a symbol on the fresco over their heads, simply of three crossed lines of runes. One flared red and continued to glow, humming softly, as the magic streamed from Mephasm's hands to touch it.

"It is done," the devil stated, gesturing towards the only door in the room, "Onwards you must go. Good luck. _Seek me out. We have much to talk of, and I have a few things of yours_," though the others could not hear his words, he nodded teasingly towards the shard and the dog-eared journal on his table, then turned away from them, dismissing the group entirely, opening another book.

Waving the others over to follow her, Isaviel pushed the door beside her slowly until it was fully open, and upon seeing only a short, dark corridor ahead, she stepped through. There were no traps, no signs on the walls, and only one closed door beyond, a persistent scraping coming from somewhere up ahead.

"He had a shard!" Neeshka squeaked once the others had joined the Moon Elf, shutting the door behind them.

"That one is a lying bastard," Bishop hissed, and Isaviel smirked at his tone, though her eyes were hard.

"Jealous?" she asked, letting Casavir pass to peer anxiously through the grating in the door ahead, "I doubt he's much more of a liar than you, Bishop. Oh…and another thing," she lowered her voice, glaring now, her tone ice cold, "If you ever threaten me like you did in there – ever again – you'll wake one morning choking on your own blood."

The ranger sneered half-heartedly, but there was a fierce look in his eyes apart from rage, and his look soon became a wicked grin…

"As much as the sexual tension is incredibly awkward for us all," Sand put in, "I think the paladin might be having a heart attack. There are a _lot_ of Erinyes in the next room. None of them are armed, and some of them are naked. That tends to mean they are more dangerous, so stop mooning over each other and…"

"Shut up, wizard," Bishop sighed, and Isaviel was already moving up to the door, pushing at Casavir until his stepped out of the way, eyes like saucers.

Through the grating the scene was rather innocent at first. Sand had obviously only given the details which he had found most notable – and that reflected poorly on him – for there was a great deal more going on than his information had implied. This room was far larger than Mephasm's, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed, around the perimeter of which was drawn a similar semi-circular line of runes…a suspect place to keep a devil servant, if Isaviel ever saw one. Indeed there were a number of Erinyes around the room, female devils in the shape of tall, impossibly icy-skinned women, dressed in some rather revealing leather clothes of dubious origin. Some were more like scraps than items. They all sported large white feathered wings and though their faces were flawless and their bodies undoubtedly pleasing as well, their eyes were shining red, with barely any whites to be seen. Their hands ended in longer black talons, as did their bare feet. But for the moment, they were scattered about the room, apparently free to roam as they willed; some were seated on the deep red carpet, laughing in husky, seductive tones while they played a game of chess. Oddly, there was no board, and their pieces were shaped like body parts, not whole people. Others reclined at intervals about the room, talking quietly…their seats were rather telling of their true nature, as these were freshly killed demons, their blood turning the carpet black.

As Isaviel watched, a flash of white light sent the devils in the room scattering to its walls – and the Moon Elf's friends all clustered around her vantage point. Shandra appeared in the magic's wake, and though Isaviel called to her – as did Casavir – and tried to open the door, both actions failed to evoke a response. The young woman looked about herself with a mixture of confusion and horror, as well as embarrassment, until a languid female voice addressed her by name, affecting a sympathetic tone.

"Shandra…and just when I was growing tired of the Jerro blood, a new bag of it appears before me. You are far lovelier than your grandfather…in a disappointing way," the voice added, as the speaker slid from the bed to stand directly before Shandra, the line of runes between them.

"This must be Hezebel, the leader of the Erinyes," Sand noted, and Isaviel nodded, calling to her friend again, trying the door again…nothing.

"I'd agree," Khelgar grunted in frustration, hopping once to try to see through the grating, "But I'm havin' a little trouble here."

Hezebel was a little taller, a little more beautiful and groomed than her servants, her wings broad and glossy, unblemished white. Her skin was as pale as death, her eyes like backlit rubies with long black lashes to match her lustrous dark ringlets, lips blood-red and full, curving readily into a worryingly beguiling smile to reveal perfect teeth. She wore a thin black shift, short but split to the hips at both sides anyway.

"How...how did I get here?" Shandra stammered, beginning to look around and then thinking better of it.

"Gods, if only we could get through this door," Casavir groaned, "The devil must have put some kind of silencing spell over us as well."

"One that means we can hear each other? Sophisticated…and impossible. Perhaps if we listen, rather than pondering the impossible, we might learn a thing or two to help us in actually re-joining Shandra," Sand suggested, and the group gained an uneasily silence – soon painfully aware that they had missed something important.

"I…I don't believe you," Shandra was saying, shaking her head, "And…so it's true? I can travel wherever I want in this haven – I could even get back with my friends?"

"In time," Hezebel nodded slyly, affecting a little pitying frown, pursing her lips, "Although it will take a little practice yet. You may find travel here…erratic. The place has many locks and seals, some of which not even you can breach without the proper knowledge. Their power is drawn from the demons and devils caged here, and thus you will be drawn to them as well."

"What about my friends?"

"They will have a…more difficult time of it. Their aim is a little different from your own – you who hold such love and loyalty within you. The hope, the innocence, the utter blissful ignorance…fascinatingly vacuous, truly," the devil smiled more broadly when Shandra just blinked at her in confusion, "I think they will soon envy the power you have…"

"That's not likely. I don't think Isaviel's got _any_ reason to envy me," the woman did sound oddly grudging, and Isaviel was surprised by how much that bothered her.

"Ah, you fear her…and respect her," Hezebel tilted her head curiously, "An interesting combination…though it is not fear of the usual kind. You fear…she will take something from you…something you prize greatly…"

"No…I don't know what you're doing in my head, but…"

"Oh, I see your heart's greatest desires, and worst fears," Hezebel nodded smugly, "I need not voice them to know what they are. As for your ability within this place…to travel you need only think of a part of the haven where you wish to be, and you shall…"

The flash of magic came again, and Shandra had disappeared with a roar of sound even before Hezebel finished her sentence. Instead, the Erinyes waved her hand imperiously and the door in front of Isaviel and the others clicked, swinging open to allow them to stumble inside.

"By all the hells…" Khelgar breathed when at last he saw the scene; Neeshka elbowed him hard.

"You're a dwarf. You like women with beards and bigger muscles than Casavir, right? Right?" the Tiefling demanded, cringing when a pair of Erinyes came too close, giggling and pointing at her horns and tail but showing no signs of hostility, "And you really don't want to be swearing on the Hells. That won't do you any good here…I reckon she's come straight out of…"

"Phlegethos," Hezebel agreed coolly with the confidence of one who knows they will be listened to, "And you…I fail to understand what Mephasm sees in you," the Erinyes turned to Isaviel now, looking around at her handmaidens as she spoke and sharing a smile with a few, "I really do. You carry yourself as one who has been told her whole life that she is beautiful; as one who always got what they wanted as a child with just a pretty smile, though the thing curled around your soul is as ugly as the scars that mar your body," she smiled, her servants cackling at the petty insults.

"Can you get us into the laboratory? You did well enough at keeping us away from Shandra, but in helping us you will gain revenge against your master. If he does not surrender to us, he will die tonight," Isaviel responded, keeping her expression still and her thoughts hard.

"Poor gosling," Hezebel continued, clapping her hands twice – a signal for her servants to file out of one of the three doors in the room, "Whoever lied to you? You are such a homely creature…"

"Well now," Bishop interrupted unexpectedly, and the Erinyes smiled even wider when her eyes fell on him, looking him up and down unashamedly, "If there's anything I can't stand it's a demonic wench…"

"Devilish," Qara corrected curtly, but he ignored her.

"…trying to crawl out of her gutter by throwing slime on someone else," he paused, glancing around at the room, then shrugged, and his tone became angrily mocking, "Don't get me wrong, I've known my fair share of banshees, but at least they weren't stupid enough to get caught in a summoning circle like you."

"Trapped…in circles…such curious words," Hezebel raised an eyebrow, and now it was her turn to be mocking, pouting as she reclined back against the foot of her bed rather revealingly, "Are they taken from a memory, ranger? A memory that carries a scent of blood with it?"

Bishop flinched openly at her words, but his face only portrayed greater anger. Isaviel did not know whether to trust his defence of her, and watched the altercation warily. Casavir and Khelgar were keeping their distance rather pointedly, and Neeshka was evidently struggling against her demonic blood, her eyes glowing red still, her hands twitching closer and closer to her knives. Sand and Qara were both beginning to look around the room, pondering the summoning circle surrounding the bed, and the runes on the door through which the other Erinyes had left. Elanee was already standing by the far door, looking pale and scared. It was from beyond that portal that the scraping they had heard earlier was coming.

"If you're going to go all cryptic on us, maybe we should just put you in a tomb right now," Bishop suggesting through gritted teeth, and Hezebel laughed patronisingly.

"There is nothing cryptic in what I say, and you know that well – I do not speak of what is hidden, but rather what is written on your features and in your mind," the Erinyes denied, her expression softening as though greatly moved, putting a hand of over her heart and pouting a little, "How long has it been since you _defended _a woman as you just did? Shown a kindness? Or has life been servitude, always trapped within one circle after another, ever narrowing?"

Isaviel's heart gave a jolt, though her hands closed around the hilts of her daggers more surely than Neeshka's could. Looking up at Bishop, she saw his face was set as still as hers, but his arms were flexing just a little, muscles in his jaw clenched.

"You want to play guessing games? Then guess what I'm going to do to you next," he growled, not moving at all when Isaviel put a hand on his arm, stepping forward and shaking her head, her patience growing thin.

"If you want to attack someone, attack me," the Moon Elf told Hezebel now, "I've important business to attend to, and you've not answered my question."

"Look, as much as I appreciate it, I can handle her," Bishop snarled, just to make sure that Isaviel knew he did _not _'appreciate it' at all, "Don't protect me. You're just playing her game by trying to be a hero."

"Ah…heroes," Hezebel smiled, "There is such disdain in your voice, pretty lost boy. For every hero, ranger, a thousand fall. For every one born in West Harbour, there are a thousand weaker, driven from their homes in shame," her red eyes beheld him steadily, victoriously, and Isaviel felt his arm tense even harder under her hand.

"Little witch," Bishop growled, but Hezebel continued unbothered.

"But what makes my life so sweet, my _existence_ so sweet, if those that backstab when such things wound them, and for whom kindness shown to them lashes like a slaver's whip. Tell your… 'lovely' friend what it means for you to defend her, to journey with her, and what it really meant when this… "Duncan" saved you."

"You keep talking, really keep going," Bishop told her furiously, his voice so low, shaking with rage, "And not even that summoning circle will save you."

"Deal with me, or no one at all," Isaviel broke in now, reaching the edge of the summoning circle, and Hezebel reclined onto her side to see her better, "If you break the seal to the laboratory I will kill your master, and release you from his servitude."

"She can't stop tormenting," Bishop spat, "Her words are all she's got, and they're empty, like she is."

"Oh, I am done talking," Hezebel was pleased to disagree, "I have planted a seed that will grow in time, and that is enough."

"Will you help us open the seal?" Isaviel demanded, and the Erinyes nodded after a moment, her eyes lingering on each of the Moon Elf's companions.

"I will…though it will come at a slight price. A far easier bargain than many of my comrades in servitude might offer you, as well."

"Very well, then name your price," Isaviel agreed, somehow sensing that it would be far less agreeable than Hezebel's words implied.

"Good," the devil smiled, rolling on to her stomach on the bed, her chin resting on her palm, and pointing lazily with her free hand towards Casavir, "I would very much it like it if you would…kiss that one. He holds you in far more esteem than you realise, and I would love so very much to see you break his rigid reserve. Don't stint. A peck on the cheek, a brush of the lips…it won't count. At all. I'll only make the bargain harder."

"_That_ is your bargain?" Isaviel exclaimed, feeling like her jaw had just dropped to the floor in shock. It seemed so…harmless, and yet so very…distasteful.

"I will not agree to your schemes, devil," Casavir was quick to deny, flushing deep red.

"There must be another way. There are others in this place who could help us…Mephasm said…" Elanee started to wail, but Hezebel interrupted.

"Put aside your feeble hopes, druid. You ought to love another, more suited to your…gentle heart. That one might be a noble paladin, but his soul craves another type of woman entirely," the Erinyes smirked, quirking an eyebrow when Elanee blanched.

"Mephasm said that the devils here are two in number beyond himself – they are far easier to bargain with, so I have heard," Sand put in quickly when the devil turned to him, "The demons are three: Zaxis and Qaggoth-Yeg would never help us, Isaviel – he explained as much. And I can hear them just beyond that door. Have a look through the grating – they don't look pleased. The Succubus will be no better than Hezebel here, I assure you."

"Your wizard is a clever one…Isaviel, though he gives me your name to play with. Your mother…from Evereska. Esmerelle, the one whose screams still echo. Fascinating…you do not know what it is you will suffer. Betrayal, pain, death, loss…The Lamentations of the Dead."

"Silence," Isaviel snarled.

Her skin was crawling now, not daring to ponder those words at that time, and the more she thought on what she had to do, the less she wanted to do it. Elanee was staring at her with eyes like saucers, Shandra would be furious if she ever found out – and Casavir would certainly tell her. She would lose two companions' allegiances in a heartbeat. Bishop's hand was shaking as it closed around his sword hilt and he was glaring at her; he understood her choice, so she reached up and kissed first his left cheek, then his right, holding his face in her hands though he tried to recoil, until his ranging eyes were caught by hers. She thought no words, and certainly spoke none, stepping away from him. He did not move to follow her steps with his gaze, though Casavir backed up against the wall as she approached him, as fearful and impotent as she had ever seen him, ironically.

"Oh, gods, just get it over with," Qara sighed, looking at her nails in boredom, "It's not like anyone in this room thinks it might mean anything."

"I think you've entirely been outdone by the subtleties of life, dear," Sand groaned, looking away through the grating of the door leading to Zaxis and Qaggoth-Yeg.

Khelgar was looking down at the floor, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, Bishop was watching Hezebel intently rather than turn around, and Sand was still staring out of the door. But Elanee was watching in horror, and the Erinyes was clapping her hands in glee as Isaviel put a hand on the paladin's shoulder, staring hard into his fearful blue eyes.

"I command you, as your captain, and – I hope – as someone you trust at least a little, to do this. Tell Shandra…I'll tell her. It doesn't matter. If she's got any sense, she'll know we did it to save her. She knows it's her you love," Isaviel told him calmly, but his expression did not change – nor did he move away.

"I do trust you," he admitted unhappily, "I trust you to do what is right for this war, and what is right for yourself. But for me…I understand. I am but a soldier in this war. I will not stop you, my lady, though it might be for the best to do so."

"Ah, he chooses his words so carefully," Hezebel cackled, "For he does not love her, though you might think he does. Both your hearts will break soon enough I think. Now, let me see what I have asked for. And I will play my part without any other demands…as promised."

Isaviel had never felt the need to apologise to a man before kissing him before, and she refrained then on matters of principle, though she dearly wanted to. Casavir looked so unwilling, pulling back even further against the wall as she stood on her tiptoes, until the back of his head collided with the stone. The rebound rather unceremoniously brought their lips together, to the surprise of both, and the Moon Elf had not expected it to make her feel as it did. She had grown used to his paladinic aura, what little of it she could detect; it was a constant brightness, an unsettling warmth in the heart. Kissing him, it was something else. She wondered why Shandra had been so unhappy with her lot, although the thought was but a brief one. She had never expected righteousness to taste so good. She was a little startled when he did not pull away, her own hands gripping his shoulders tightly as his hands settled on her sides. His breath was shuddering, though his body no longer shook.

Hezebel's clapping broke the spell, and Isaviel pulled away first, stumbling from the paladin and looking away from him sharply. That had been a far greater mistake than she had expected. Her heart was pounding and her legs were weak. And Bishop was watching the paladin over her head, his eyes promising to spill blood.


	28. Abandon All Hopes Ye Who Enter

"And what is this? Step forward and let Koraboros look upon your little features," a deep, growling voice commanded, just as Shandra was starting to orientate herself in this place, yet another grey-stone room, now with two red lines glowing in the ceiling instead of one.

"Wh-what?" the woman asked, recoiling from unexpected heat.

Looking up, she shrieked, seeing the monster looming over her. Some twelve feet high, wreathed in flame, his heavily muscled body was covered in thick red scales, enormous bat-like wings arcing around him. A long tail lashed at his back, barbed and dripping poison.

"You are but a tool. And…a gift. After all this time, I am touched. Tell me, little one, how did you get here?" Koraboros asked, and Shandra could barely bring herself to look up into his flaming eyes, finding it difficult to tear her gaze from his taloned hands. His face was more bestial than human, with a wide maw of spiked teeth and a pair of twisting horns. He seemed to be smiling a little at her fear.

"I…I don't understand what's happening to me," Shandra found herself admitting, looking about the room – it was the plainest yet, with just a few additional runes carved in the walls, glowing orange. There was a simple wooden door in one corner, and from beyond it she could hear a perpetual rattling.

"Blood powers this place, girl. Now here you are of your own free will, and the balance shifts."

"What? What balance? I didn't choose to appear in this room…a demoness told me I could travel anywhere in this place and…suddenly I was here."

"We captives power not only our master, but also this whole place. The changes in power throughout the complex…may represent where your mindless travels direct you," even through that rumbling voice, he sounded a little too smug, and Shandra stepped away until her back hit a metal door with a clang.

"Who is that master?" she demanded.

"A powerful wizard, one whom your friends have hunted for some time. He has thwarted your efforts time and again…and he is lord and king of this place, and its darkness, eternally tied to shadow. I think his name is already known to you and your friends…"

"The King of Shadows is here?" Shandra gasped in horror, "I…I have to warn Isaviel, she can't…"

"My dear, as long as we remain in our summoning circles the one who rules here will arise from every defeat anew, more powerful than he was before. I do not think that bodes well for your friends, who will face him shortly I think."

"Then he can't be unbeatable," Shandra denied; the devil inclined his head, "There must be some way…you said that he rises from defeat when you're in your circles. What if you were to be freed? Is that possible?"

"The one who dwells here does not entertain guests, Shandra Jerro, and his power in this place far surpasses yours. There is little you could do…but free me, and those others trapped here."

"I…I need to get his attention somehow," Shandra was saying, pacing in front of Koraboros, "If I can free the monsters here…if I can get the attention of the King of Shadows, then Isaviel and the others will have a chance."

"Oh, you could try. But I am certain his energies will soon be consumed in murdering your friends. And after that, he will no doubt crush you beneath his heel as an afterthought. Such a shame, for I have enjoyed our brief time together."

"No," Shandra shook her head, staring up angrily at the monster before her, "That won't happen. He's not stopping them, and he not going to get me."

"Spoken as if time will wait for you. It will not."

* * *

The last of the Hellhounds fell, Isaviel's knee pressing into the back of its neck, a dagger through each of its eyes and blood pooling all over the stone floor. There had been four of them, all ready to pounce as soon as Isaviel and her companions had stepped through the door from Hezebel's room. They were obviously there as some kind of guard dogs; there were rather innocent-looking mats on the floor on which they probably slept. To make matters worse, however, here had been – and remained – both Qaggoth-Yeg, monstrous and foul-smelling as ever, a giant humanoid toad with poisoned spines and huge, watery eyes, along with a slightly smaller but otherwise identical Hezrou, chained to adjacent corners of the room. They raged, roared and fought with mindless hate against their chains, which were black, humming with magic, and as thick as Casavir's legs.

"You still live, little cursed thing," Qaggoth-Yeg rumbled in disappointment, straining against her manacles to no avail – even if they broke, there remained a summoning circle to bar her way, "That could be easily fixed."

"Master will kill you! Zaxis will look forward to that!" the other Hezrou threw in, thrashing a little harder than his larger equivalent, "Zaxis will feast on strips of your flesh in Yogguul!"

"Not likely," Qara sniffed, fire still dripping from her fingertips from the battle, the floor around her feet red hot.

Isaviel ignored it all, pulling her daggers free and wiping them on the hide of the hound she had just slain before sheathing them, stepping over its corpse and heading straight for the next door. Her back burned in remembered pain – that which Qaggoth-Yeg had caused her – and she was in no bargaining mood. Especially not with creatures of such a feeble collective intelligence. When her eyes met Bishops, his tunic almost as blood stained as hers, the only thought they shared was one of mutual rage. She could not think of any viable way of escaping Hezebel's bargain, but that evidently made it no easier for the ranger. It only made Isaviel angrier, knowing that she had been so easily controlled – and deceived. By herself, and by the paladin. Casavir had kissed her with passion, though it had taken a moment to show itself. There was more there than just duty, and it made her feel scared and sick. To make matters worse, her body had betrayed her – so when confronted with the hounds she had fought with fury, and devilish blood had run dark and thick.

Elanee was all but useless in this indoor environment; her bear form was too large for the doors, her owl shape feeble in battle. She wielded her sickle with little grace, and hung back in combat. Isaviel wondered why Elanee had come at all…until it occurred to her that the druid was there because she could not keep herself away from Casavir. The paladin had been uniquely useless in that fight as well, still reeling from the events which Hezebel had demanded to watch before lighting her section of the lines in the ceiling.

Khelgar was struggling to remove his axe from the skull of the Hellhound closest to the entrance door, while Bishop and the others were clustered close to the exit, resting against the walls, taking a moment to eat and drink what they could stomach. The ranger drank wine like water; at some point that would begin to affect his fighting. The Moon Elf would not stand for that, so she approached now and pulled the skin from him, emptying it onto the floor.

"Little bitch," he snarled at her, catching her wrist with one hand.

It looked for a moment like he once more considered hitting her – there was enough anger in his eyes – but he made no move to do so. Isaviel just stared back at him unwaveringly, letting her golden eyes shift to swirling grey, reminding him that he would not be able to hold her long enough to hit her. Why bother even trying when she could turn into a shade and appear behind him to stab him in the back?

"Bishop, this is not the place…" Casavir began, but the ranger laughed coldly.

"Is it _ever_ the place with you, paladin?" Bishop growled, "This isn't your concern. Just because the noble captain here put her lips against yours doesn't mean this is your business. So back off…before I make you regret it."

"Enough of this," Isaviel growled, still ignoring the thrashing and threats of the two gigantic Hezrou sharing the bloodied chamber with them, "Eat, drink. And then we move on. We need to make one more pact before we can get to the laboratory and have a hope of finding more about the silver sword…and helping Shandra."

"Agreed. Less scuffling from all of us and a little focus could win the day," Sand sighed, taking a long draught of water, rather pointedly keeping his eyes on Isaviel.

They moved on in silence – through the next door and down another dark corridor, this one much longer than the first, twisting and turning as it sloped, rising higher into the building. Just as they were reaching the iron door ahead, Shandra's voice echoed around them, coming from all directions at once. Her words did not seem to be meant for them, and they all stopped in their tracks, listening.

"Is there any way to reach your master? The others only talk in riddles and lead me in circles," she sounded so tired and scared and…determined, "I need to speak to him."

"No, poor thing, not for you," a woman responded patronisingly, a little mockingly as well, "And what would you say if you could reach him?"

"I'd tell him to surrender," Shandra responded firmly, and Isaviel's eyes met Sand's with agreed concern, "I want his attack on the people of the Sword Coast to stop."

"His attack? Oh, how intriguing," the woman responded – from context it seemed that she must be the leader of the Succubi Mephasm had mentioned, Blooden, "Still, you have a better chance of getting your friends to listen than him. They hear our words even now. It will not take much more concentration to address them directly, surely?"

"Isaviel?" Shandra asked tentatively, "C-Casavir?"

"My, my you have strong feelings for them indeed. Go on…that should be enough. Simply think of them and you will be able to hear them answer, though I do not know how long the connection will last. Oh…and do not teleport around, it will ruin your concentration."

"Can you hear me?" suddenly Shandra's voice was echoing in Isaviel's head, stronger than Mephasm's had before, and she reeled, stumbling into Khelgar who righted her quickly.

"Shandra!" the Moon Elf gasped.

"This place is sealed by demons and devils. But listen…they say that their lord is unbeatable…"

"Everyone has a weakness."

"That's what they say, too…but be careful. I don't think they were lying about this. I think he's…I think he might be the King of Shadows."

"Killing our master?" Blooden's voice interrupted, sounding a little distant, "Oh, it's not impossible…"

Her words faded, and though they called out to Shandra again there was no response. Sharing some anxious glances – as well as some angry and distrustful ones – they moved on, Khelgar shouldering his way through the iron door, all of them braced and ready for battle, swords, daggers and swelling magic to hand. The great beast that awaited them in this next non-descript room was alone, the summoning circle around his feet no wider in diameter than the span of his leathery wings at rest, and the fires burning beneath his skin were the only source of light, giving a dull red glow.

"Oh, by all the gods," Sand groaned, his grey eyes wide and glinting in the firelight, staring up at the form before them, "What kind of power can command a leader among the Erinyes, one among the Succubi, a pair of Hezrou, a fallen Deva…and a Balor?"

"What are these puny ants which disturb my piece?" the monster asked at length, turning imperiously to at last bother looking down, revealing its steaming face, resembling a skull across which skin was stretched tight, showing every hard ridge of bone. Its teeth were sharp and as long as shortswords, revealed as it spoke with a snarl, "I am Baalbisan of the great Abyss. I will not speak with a group of feeble little creatures, whose shrill voices and quailing forms betray them to be female."

"Answer us, demon!" Casavir growled, stepping forward, his hammer shining brightly in the dim light, washing away the red glow and replacing it with clearer blue light, "Have you spoken to our companion?"

"A weak, squeaking female. I directed her far from me…and far from you. You will meet only death in this place, and I will be waiting to drag your corpses back to the Abyss with me," he paused, long forked tongue darted out to taste the air and his warped face twisted even more, "Male, your aura tastes vile, and that tiny weapon you hold bleeds blackness. There are those among you who taste positively glorious," his eye settled first on Bishop, then on Isaviel, and came to rest on Neeshka, who backed up, waving her hands in front of her face as if that meant he would leave her alone, "There is evil in your souls and running in your blood; a murderer, an accursed bloodline, and you. But…you are so weak and pathetic. Your blood, its scent is only a drop of evil in a sea of humanity. You walk this earth, this worthless human plane, and you bear the hallmarks of a demon…but you think and you act as one of them. There are others who make more of their evil souls, a pity they do not share your demonic blood."

"You…you…"Neeshka stammered, caught somewhere between fear and indignation.

Any insults they might have traded were cut short when a humming of magical energy filled the room and the two crossed red lines overhead went out. A deep, gruff voice filled their thoughts, loud enough to send Elanee and Khelgar to their knees, clutching at their ears.

"You think you can defeat me here? The haven is the source of my power, and you are lambs to the slaughter, all of you."

Baalbisan's laughter thundered around them as white light engulfed Isaviel and her group, its magic tearing them from that chamber and sending them tumbling through a prickling void of energy. With a rushing in her ears Isaviel found herself dumped at the booted feet of a man. Looking up at his raging white-grey eyes, seeing that this was once more Mephasm's chamber, she also understood that this was not the King of Shadows. He was but a man, one dressed in odd robes with glowing gems, and equally luminous orange tattoos across his forehead, but no less a simple human man for all that. His hard, worn face was set in a grim expression as he watched her scramble to her feet, her equally disorientated friends forming up around her. Mephasm was not even watching the scene, perusing a thick and evidently ancient tome, his back turned, his wings ruffling as he breathed. But Isaviel got the feeling that he was waiting, and though he seemed not to be watching he was paying a great deal of attention.

"Why, you have brought gifts with you," the warlock was saying, affecting a pleased tone which he failed to reflect with his expression, gesturing to Isaviel, "You carry many shards with you, and the hilt. One is even lodged inside you. Let me take them off your hands…and off your corpse."

The arrow Bishop sent swooping towards him in response caught fire and fell as ash to the floor once it came within a foot of the warlock, who paid it no heed at all. Steel was drawn with a great communal ring as seven pitch black hounds, each the size of horses, materialised around them in flashes of red light, fire streaming from their eyes and dripping from their snarling lips. They gave no more option for talking as the warlock stepped into Mephasm's circle, taking the book straight from the evil Deva's hands, looking at it once, dropping it to the table and then removing the little silver shard from its bowl, turning it over in his hands.

The hounds pounced towards the group; there was one for each of them, and Elanee was quick to transform into a bear to combat the enormous beast hurtling towards her. They clashed with roars…and both Casavir and Khelgar went about the threat posed to them in a similar manner, crashing to the floor, armour scraping across the ground. Sand and Qara were both relying on defensive spells to hold their attackers at bay, at least at first…and Isaviel had to dodge out of the way of her attacker, scrambling to the floor and rolling around as the snarling hound skittered on the mosaic floor to snap at her. In response she threw her weight back on to one hand, low on the floor, and pushed off, throwing all of her weight behind her kick as one foot collided with the side of the beast's head. She felt a little psionic energy come with her concentration on her physical power, though it was poorly controlled and jarred her leg just as it send the hound's head snapping to the side, spraying fire like blood. Its ravenous fury did not relent when they rounded on each other again, snarling when her body drifted into darkness, and rode a shadow – as cast by a flap of Mephasm's wings – and the Moon Elf appeared on the hound's other side, both of her daggers biting into its skin and drawing boiling blood from the wounds.

Bishop's powerful bow had allowed him to bury three arrows deep into the right flank and, at the last second, one into the throat, of the Hellhound running towards him. Its body skidded, utterly lifeless, forcing him only to raise one foot, simultaneously turning and firing an arrow into the leg of the hound grappling with Khelgar, purposely ignoring the one attacking Casavir. However, much to the ranger's evident disgust, once he had helped the Dwarf, Khelgar turned right around and saved the paladin's life.

Isaviel had spared a moment to watch this as the hound she had attacked died, stumbling and slumping onto the ground…and then it fell, swaying one way, crashing down unexpectedly in the other direction. She managed to avoid it…mostly, but at the last second a blast of burning magic smashed into her side with bruising force, causing her to slip on the blood of Bishop's fallen foe, and the dying Hellhound's heavy body fell atop her ankle, pinning her. With a cry she was slammed into the ground, her daggers skittering across the floor ahead of her. Her hands could not find purchase on the blood covered ground, and though she kicked back with her other foot, the fallen hound would not move, even as the monster attempting to get close to Qara saw her. Instead of trying to push its way past the barrage of fiery spells the sorcerer was threatening to unleash in its direction, it turned on Isaviel and rushed towards her. Qara did nothing to stop it, although Sand managed to spare a few magical missiles to give it pause, and the monster twisted away a little, whimpering.

"Qara!" Isaviel yelled, attempting to sit up and beginning to pull at her trapped leg, pushing at the fallen hound, anything that would help, but it was moving too slowly, too heavy for her to shift alone, and the sorcerer just looked at her and shrugged, focusing her energies upon more defensive spells to keep herself safe.

Khelgar and Casavir had moved apart, helping Sand and Elanee with their attackers, and Bishop was standing, an arrow held against his bow, but not drawn back, glaring at Isaviel. She gestured frantically at the beast beginning to gather its wits, at the warlock watching them so coldly, but the ranger did not move initially, except to raise that bow, and at first she thought he meant to shoot her, instead.

"Bishop!" she shouted, partly in warning, partly in rage, but mostly in desperation, her expression imploring, "Bishop! Please!"

He flinched at her words, glancing at the Hellhound, and at last raised his bow, loosing an arrow. It swooped toward the Moon Elf, and she threw herself sideways against the one she had killed…just as her true attacker leapt unwittingly into the path of that arrow, which took it through both eyes. Panting hard, trying to recover from the shock, she looked to Bishop, who just raised his eyebrows at her….and then without looking aimed an arrow to the side, straight at Qara. Inevitably it bounced harmlessly off the bubble of protective energy around the sorcerer – weakening it somewhat – but the point had been made.

As the last of the Hellhounds fell, Khelgar and Bishop freed Isaviel, the ranger even giving her a hand up. She looked into his eyes with wary doubt for a moment, but the warlock did not want them to catch their breath, evidently, for he spoke again, this time sounding even angrier than before.

"You and your allies are stronger than anticipated, shard-bearer. But I will bear these indignities no longer. This entire sanctuary is my weapon; all who are trapped here fuel my power and I can harness the energies of this place."

As the warlock spoke, Mephasm standing by his side and watching him with silent amusement, he raised his arms, magical energy glowing white in his palms. The wounds on the dead Hellhounds closed up and healed; they stood with little whimpers and snarls, shaking their heads groggily and prowling back to their master.

"I can bind everything here to my will, summon flame from the walls," to illustrate his point, his eyes flared with a bright red and fires erupted all over the walls, not feeding off the bookcases but rather licking at the air beyond them, leaving the decoration and the books unscathed, "And you…you are nothing more than leaves caught in a storm. Did you really think you could face me here and survive?"

* * *

The ground had begun to shake when Shandra materialised in front of Baalbisan, the sneering Balor trapped in a particularly tight summoning circle. He watched her without bothering to speak, knowing that her inevitable words would give him greater scope to tie her understanding in knots.

"What she said to me…I won't do it. There must be another way," Shandra stammered, more to herself, but in her mind's eye she could see Isaviel and the others struggling against conjured flame and tenacious Hellhounds, their spells coming less frequently, their weapons swinging slower, "There _has _to be."

"Of course," Baalbisan might have nodded, had he not been so monstrous, steam hissing from his smouldering hide, flames crackling about his wings and eyelids, "Though that way requires that it, Shandra Jerro, allows its friends to die."

"You're lying," even as she spoke those words, she knew the aching misery of realisation – that knowledge that he was not.

"Shandra…even you know that truth can wound more than any lie. If you do not act now, death will meet your friends. It feels it, does it not? The lives of those others about to be snuffed out in a moment – the decision of Shandra of the line of Jerro will matter not then, and Ammon Jerro will have this day."

She could feel it, Baalbisan was right. She could see Neeshka scrambling away from one hound, limping, holding her side…Qara was stumbling, weakening when these monsters remained untouched by her fires, Casavir stood proud, swinging his hammer to aid his friends as well as himself, and that mighty gleaming weapon, a blazing blue beacon to Shandra's eyes, could dole more damage to those evil creatures than anything the others had. Bishop had been forced to draw his sword, backed up against a wall, and Khelgar was struggling, his arm caught in the jaws of one monster. Sand was calm, spells streaming from him even as his magical protections held, aiding his friends as a blast of lightening sent his foe sprawling to the ground, while Elanee collapsed beneath the charge of one hound, losing her bear form, saved by the wizard's timely spells. Isaviel whirled at the centre of the chaos, dodging, diving, her daggers and shuriken cutting with precise and deadly blows. But she was tiring, Shandra saw it, and the one who orchestrated all of this, the dark power she saw only as a shadow in her vision…could he really be Ammon Jerro? Her 'kindly' grandfather? The foolish court wizard?

"It can't be him," Shandra shook her head, tears coming to her eyes – either way she had no choice, and she drew her shortsword as she spoke, the demon's eyes following her action with wicked glee, "How did he survive? He'd be…more than seventy years old by now! Or…or…where has he been all this time?"

"Do such questions matter when death is so close? The wizard your companions face is the blood of Jerro, and far stronger than it – than Shandra. As for those it travels with...reach out to them…feel them die…"

"Isaviel!" Shandra called, and felt the Moon Elf stir, now on her knees, arcing under the fall of one hound, killed by one of Bishop's arrows, "The only way to stop him is to free the demons – they're granting all of his power. There's a way to stop him and there's no way I'm letting you die, not after all we've been through…but it's going to require some blood being spilt. Mine."

"Shandra no!" she heard Casavir call – Khelgar too, and even Sand, the wizard who had always been so distant with everyone but Isaviel.

But the woman shook her head, as if they could see her, and thought no more about it, slicing a line up her wrist and cutting deep. The pain did not come immediately, though the pumping blood pulled at her senses, gushing down onto Baalbisan's runes. Ignoring the fearful cries of her friends, she thought of the two monstrous Hezrou, appearing before them long enough only to step from one to the other, pouring blood onto their circles. Hezebel was next, and as her runes dissolved she caught the woman's cheek in her taloned hand, leaving a cut on her skin, and kissed her there as well. Blooden smiled when Shandra appeared before her, raising an eyebrow in mock pity.

"Oh my dear," the tall, lithe Succubus smiled, her red lips curling in half-contained delight, watching the blood pooling between them, observing Shandra's wan face, how she gritted her teeth against the pain, "But you've cut yourself. Now why would do _that_?"

The laughter of the Succubi's leader rang horribly in Shandra's ears as she found herself next in Koraboros's room, her legs already feeling weak, wanting nothing more than to buckle beneath her. Her vision was clouding…but she could not bear the thought of that red-scaled monster and his blazing eyes being the last thing she ever saw.

"Yes," the Pit Fiend urged, his ill-defined lips peeling upwards into what might have been a smile, "It is almost done; this pain will soon end and your sacrifice will save the souls of many."

* * *

"This is the end for you," the warlock snarled.

Though the Hellhounds had been defeated again, and he had not bothered to resurrect them, Isaviel could barely hear his words. She was on her knees, bleeding and bruised, burned in places and tired – so very tired. Casavir was struggling now, fear all she could make out from his expression after Shandra's words, and she could hear Bishop grunting with effort behind her. Sand's spells had saved her life when her legs had failed her, and only those three men remained standing. Khelgar had lost consciousness, buried beneath two Hellhounds, and Neeshka was crawling into a corner, blood soaking through the hand she held to her side, her lips quivering in pain. Qara was all but unconscious as well, though unhurt, her magical power spent, while Elanee had pulled herself back behind Sand, hugging her legs to her chest and watching with wildly fearful eyes.

"I will bury your bodies in the walls of my haven and leave you to…to…" the warlock shuddered, stumbling, catching himself with a hand on the table by Mephasm; then his eyes snapped towards the fallen Deva, "No!" he gasped, "What have you done?"

As he spoke, the ground began to shake, a great rumbling filling Isaviel's ears. The crash of falling stone, the shriek of metal on metal, and the candlelight in the room flickered. For a brief moment all she could see was the glowing yellow of Mephasm's eyes as he turned to see Shandra appear, blood pouring from both arms now, though she stumbled and fell onto her side, her eyes glazed. Her blood did not reach his circle, seeping into the mosaic below her, mingling with that of fallen Hellhounds. Casavir shouted in denial, one leg giving out as he tried to run to her, and Isaviel saw that the woman's breathing continued, though it was shallow.

"What you have done is brave but foolish, Shandra Jerro," Mephasm told her softly, watching the warlock move past him, stepping out of the circle, looming over the young woman's weak form.

"You…girl," he snarled, "You did this."

"Isaviel, Casavir…"

Shandra had whispered only just loud enough to hear, her voice breaking on her lover's name, her eyelids fluttering feebly and almost closing over her bright blue eyes, staring past the warlock as if he had not spoken, seeking the sight of the paladin. The Moon Elf had never felt such horror. Shandra had only been good to her…once she had learned to trust her. And she _had _trusted her. Perhaps more than any of the others, and believed that she could do good. She tried to return the look that Shandra sent to her, a reassuring smile. Instead she felt tears trickling over her cheeks, a tightness in her throat, and she dropped her daggers and brought a hand to cover her mouth.

"You let the deadliest creatures on the Lower Realms free," the warlock raged, "You have weakened me…and in so doing, you have earned death."

His hands were already glowing with light, green mists swirling around them, acid hissing out of his veins and from his fingertips to drip onto the ground at his feet. All the while, her blood pooled, and at last it reached the summoning circle, which flared once at the slightest contact, dissolving into the air as sulphurous steam.

Shandra looked up at the warlock slowly, tears flowing from her eyes, meeting her fate as Casavir threw himself back to his feet, but the paladin was out of time. It was too late to give any showy displays of affection. The green blast of magic tore through her, and she convulsed once, her mouth opening to speak softly.

"I know, Grandfather. I'm sorry, so sorry…"

And she lay still.


	29. The Cold Dawn

"_Grandfather_? What is this?" Ammon Jerro demanded as the others reeled.

Casavir had fallen to his knees in horror, his righteous fury faltering in his grief. Qara had managed to turn and stare in awe at the warlock's power, while Sand stood as one frozen, his sadness a still, mask-like thing. Neeshka looked as though she could barely see anything, her consciousness all but fled even as Elanee attempted to cast a healing spell upon her. Khelgar still had not moved, though he was evidently breathing, and Isaviel almost fell when she turned back, her vision distorted with tears. Still, she saw Mephasm facing the warlock, flapping his strong wings as he had in the Githyanki lair, keeping himself from descending through the portal which he had summoned for himself.

"It is truth, Ammon," the fallen Deva told him calmly, "And by such truths is one damned."

"I have no kin," the warlock denied flatly, annunciating every word with great emphasis, "All were killed during the war against the King of Shadows thirty years ago!"

"Blood finds a way, Ammon," Mephasm smiled slowly, glancing at the young woman, dead at the warlock's feet and by the warlock's hands, "Always."

"You lie!"

"No," the Deva denied, still with that wolfish grin, "You know only Jerro blood could have broken the circles in this haven…as her blood has now broken mine. There are laws, Jerro," his voice was suddenly stern, a frown distorting his features, "And when one carries such laws too far, they will take you to where I go now," he allowed himself to drop through the portal then, but the words he whispered into Isaviel's thoughts brushed coolly against her skin, like a breeze, "_I will be waiting for your summons, Beautiful One._"

Once Mephasm was gone Ammon Jerro fell to his knees by his granddaughter, his hand shaking as he reached out to touch her cheek. He was not crying, but there was grief enough in his expression. He did not bother to look up as Casavir approached him, hammer in hand. As the paladin took those ponderous steps, Sand knelt beside Isaviel, putting an arm around her waist and helping her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him in her weariness as they approached, Bishop stalking behind.

"Get up, coward," Casavir snarled, "Get up and face us."

Ammon Jerro did not move, and still did not look up. When he showed no further signs of attacking them, and the haven continued to shake and rumble, Casavir leaned over Shandra, grasping the warlock by the arm and dragging him to his feet, pushing him aside.

"I say we do to him what he did to her," Bishop growled, and the Moon Elf heard the hum of his bow behind her.

"No," she said firmly, and both the ranger and the paladin looked to her with angry disagreement, "Can't you see that he's broken? We need what he knows – and what he has."

She had seen the gleam of the large shard, and the red gem embedded within it which Zhjaeve had spoken of when Ammon had pulled open his pocket to drop the smaller shard within. He looked to her now, and his expression faltered when his eyes focused upon her – the look lasted for just a second, but he remained even paler than before.

"He must answer for his crimes," Casavir argued, but stopped when Isaviel glared at him.

"He will," she agreed, "But we need him if we are to have a hope of defeating our common foe, the King of Shadows. He _will_ answer for his crimes. But he will suffer for them first."

"Kill me now and this place will collapse. We would all die," Ammon Jerro put in now, still sounding as angry and bitter as he had before, "In my blindness I have done a great wrong. Perhaps it is not too late to rectify it…and where one life was lost I still might save you all. My haven is all but destroyed without the powers holding it here, but enough remains to take us from this place."

* * *

They had arrived in the bailey of Crossroad Keep shortly afterwards, the magical burst of Ammon Jerro's spell sending guards scrambling back, though a few quick commands saw him being led away to the dungeons, helpfully not fighting back. Khelgar, Neeshka and Qara were hastily carried away for healing, though Isaviel refused this for herself, watching the priests of Lathander rushing across the yard – they were newly arrived for the morrow's New Year festival, but other rites awaited them. As they took Shandra's body, still so pale and limp, from Casavir, the paladin's arms hanging uselessly after that, the soldiers on duty around the night-time bailey began to stop and stare at the dead woman, now being carried over to the little temple. The stillness spread like a wave, until the whole bailey was silent, save for the fires crackling in the three giant braziers; one at the centre of the bailey, one to either side of the gatehouse. Most of the soldiers had known who she was, and from the horror and sadness on their faces, they had liked who she was as well.

Tired and in pain, Isaviel looked around herself, at those gravely staring faces flickering in torchlight, before she heard Kana calling from across the yard, out of sight, for them to continue their work – the lieutenant had presumably been checking in with the smith. The Moon Elf wanted to weep as she watched Casavir trailing the priests of Lathander, heading for that little temple which had been made ready for them. Zhjaeve had presumably been praying inside regardless, for now she stood at the doorway to that round, domed building, watching with sad eyes. At least the Githzerai was not immovable then, though Isaviel realised that for herself, as captain of Crossroad Keep, she did not have such luxuries.

"I need a report on the status of the keep as soon as possible," she told one of the servants who came to take her pack from her, swaying only a little as she pulled out of Sand's grasp.

"Of course, Captain."

"And we need to make sure that Shandra's funeral arrangements are completed soon."

"Yes, Captain…if I might add, there is also the New Year festival to begin tomorrow eve."

"Then it will."

Though Bishop sneered at her 'dutifulness' and stalked away, she knew she was doing the right thing. She had to be strong, especially in front of all of these soldiers, men who might be dying for her soon. Kana was approaching at a ferocious pace, her face as hard as ever, and for once the Moon Elf did not feel anger or frustration towards the woman…she felt nothing at all. Grobnar had evidently witnessed their arrival, for he was following her, wide eyed and curious. The Gnome was grief-stricken at the news, his big, child-like eyes filling with tears, but he nodded solemnly as Sand explained.

"I have been working on an addition to our cause," the Gnome said at length, "It's not a replacement for Shandra – it can't speak, and it doesn't really think per se. But it can fight, and run…"

"Something to take a look at later," Sand smiled condescendingly down at Grobnar, shooing him away and looking to Isaviel, who had watched the entire interaction with a distant air, "Isaviel, you need someone to tend to your wounds, and then you need to rest. I will inform Zhjaeve and Aldanon of today's events, and I will keep you updated on how your friends' health progresses. But you need to bandage those wounds, at least."

Isaviel nodded absently, beginning to walk rather headlong for the keep, every step pulling painfully at some injury or another, her vision already foggy, bending at the edges dizzyingly. She made it past Sand's house, stubbornly insisting to him that he leave her to get some rest. He paused, unwilling, watching her pained gait and his eyes lingering on her face, but at last he nodded and pushed through his door. She heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs opposite that front door, heading straight for his bed. Looking back down the path back to the yard, snow shovelled into high banks to both sides of its black, muddy surface, she could see the glinting red of blood still right at the centre of the yard, where Shandra had lain. Someone was finally coming with a broom to attempt to disperse it.

Kana had returned Karnwyr to his master and was watching the wolf and the ranger with a confused and doubtful expression with which Isaviel could entirely sympathise. Bishop was crouched in front of it, ruffling the fur on its head and speaking some less-than-derisive words to the animal. Breaking the spell, whatever he said to Kana had her turning sharply on her heel, storming back the way she had come. His eyes found Isaviel then, and the smirk he sent her was not the look of one who cared for a friend who had just fallen. He seemed just as he always did, as cold and abrasive as ever.

Pausing to glare back at him, Isaviel began to turn, intending to make her way up the sloping path to the keep doors, but walked straight into Daeghun, knocking her off balance in her weary state, and he caught her automatically. The moment of imbalance brought all of her weariness and pain rushing back, and she lost her teetering battle against unconsciousness.

* * *

When Isaviel woke she felt rested, but a little stiff, and the many minor injuries she had sustained remained at the back of her mind, aching dully. She was in her own room in the keep, the fire flickering large and orange though dawn light shone down through the skylight above her head. She remembered someone helping her into a bath – was it Elanee? That had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. The girl felt compassion for loss and sadness as greatly as she seemed to suffer the lack of it from her companions. She had stayed and talked to Isaviel of their childhoods in the Mere, though the words had drifted past the Moon Elf, heard, listened to, and forgotten. They had been intended to keep her awake in the warm water, not as a geas, surely?

By the time Elanee had gone, Isaviel had been so tired she barely registered who it was that tended to her wounds, adding soothing salve to the burn on her side, bandaging the cut on her arm, and one on her calf. Now, sitting up, blinking in the dawn light, Isaviel saw Daeghun asleep in the armchair by the fire, his bow unstrung across his knee. It must have been him who tended her wounds, then, and her first thought was to feel angry and frustrated. But then she remembered Shandra, the heavy guilt of seeing her lying there, still and cold, not blinking or breathing any longer. The first of her friends to die…since Amie in West Harbour those months ago. At some point today she would have to face Ammon Jerro, try to untangle the messy truth about who he really was, how he was alive…and how he could help them, even though he had killed the kindest of her friends. Not the best, but certainly the kindest, and Isaviel felt even guiltier realising that. Suddenly her anger with her father did not seem so important, and she slipped silently from the bed, shivering in her nightgown even with the fire, and gathered up some clothes, leaving the room in silence.

She was glad for the fur lining of her long grey tunic, and the thick fabric of her black leggings, finally relinquishing her worn old Mere boots for the snow shoes left by the door of her sitting room. Someone had left hot porridge for her, knowing her morning routine well, and she ate it quickly though it scalded her tongue. There was much to do today, and the longer she sat around thinking about it, the harder it would be.

The snows had fallen thick and long in the night and the soldiers were shovelling it out of the way when their captain passed by, pausing to salute as soon as they saw her long red cloak flapping in the breeze. She preferred to keep her mother's cloak wrapped around her; something about its make meant that it kept the cold from her remarkably well. Her hair had caught several large snowflakes on the brisk, if slightly more ungainly, walk out of the keep and down the path into the bailey, heading left past the workmen still toiling on the walls, just setting up at this time. The sky was thick with white clouds, the pale sun glinting only occasionally from the few gaps between them. It did little to warm the icy, windy air, and in spite of her attempts to dress for the weather the Moon Elf's toes were numb by the time she reached the newly consecrated Temple of Lathander at the far left corner of the bailey, past a neat little row of dead, planted trees. All the other winter-killed plant-matter had been 'tidied away', a baffling decision for Isaviel. The trees looked just as dead, their bare branches groaning in the wind, heavy with snow.

A symbol of Lathander had been hammered onto the new wooden door, coloured glass of dawn shades glinting in the morning light, making up for their lack in the actual sky. A round, golden sunburst was at their centre, of hammered bronze, so much more idealised than its real-life counterpart, which would barely show its face for days at this time of year. One of the red-robed priests must have seen her approach through the window in the curved wall, for he opened the door for her as she approached.

"Greetings of Lathander upon you, Captain," he told her with a sympathetic smile as she stamped the snow off her boots, stepping inside, "We are most grateful for your acceptance of our request to come here," the wind roared in protest as he pushed the door closed, the wood rattling against its hinges and requiring two thick bolts to be drawn across it to keep it closed, "And we are most sorry for your loss."

"I had a…friend once amongst your order," Isaviel told him, pulling her gloves off and hooking them in her belt, rubbing her hands together and feeling the gentle warmth of the room with relief, "It was a choice between Lathander and Tyr…I chose his god, because…"

"You understand now that you owe him more than you realised," the priest nodded, that smile remaining unsettlingly on his lined face, illuminated through the glass roof of this little square porch, snow melting on the tiles only to reappear under the door, "Such is the way of life and loss. Though Brother Merring has gone, his love has been reborn in you, and you have seen fit to aid Lathander's cause, though it is not your own."

"Wh-what?" Isaviel looked at the short, balding man in front of her with suspicious surprise – why did that fixed smile make her think of Mephasm? _I will be waiting for your summons, Beautiful One._ She shivered, and it was not from the cold.

"My Lady, I knew Brother Merring for many years. We trained together at the monastery near Neverwinter."

"He never told me much," Isaviel admitted, but did not ask any more, looking away from the priest, who moved to push aside the yellow curtain ahead of her without offering to answer, its golden threads shimmering in the light which seemed so much greater in here than outside.

The Moon Elf drew in her breath as she stepped through, seeing that the domed roof had been replaced with a glass replica, letting in more sunlight than was offered outside, reflected by the white marble floor, shot through with hints of pink and yellow gold. In one of the adjacent rooms she could hear the Song to the Morninglord; most of the priests would be joining in the choral welcoming in of the dawn, so this main, circular hall was empty. But for the paladin, kneeling at the centre, his head bowed, his palms hovering just above the colourful sphere of stone before him. Snow had settled in his black hair, drifting down through the oculus above along with a pale shaft of light, washing out the radiance of the hammer beside him, its metal head a pale blue.

Beyond him, as Isaviel approached upon silent feet, the priest leaving them discreetly, she could see the closed wooden coffin laid upon the large altar, upon a semi-circular platform of stone. Someone must have worked through the night adding the decorative wreathes of Chauntea across it surface, something which Isaviel found more gruesome than thoughtful.

"Shandra would have been glad to know that she would rest at last in the light of Lathander. Her goddess was Chauntea, but these two gods love each other well; they are man and wife," Casavir said softly when Isaviel knelt beside him, his hands coming to rest by his sides, "I do not know much of your own god, my lady, but I am glad that you had the sight to allow the priests of Lathander here."

"Though you carry the light of Tyr at your back?"

"I feel I am losing his guidance every moment of every day, my lady," the paladin shook his head, still not looking at her, his shining blue eyes glittering with unshed tears and fixed ahead upon the coffin, his pale face a cold mask, his voice as steady and deep as ever, "I still believe, because I see the power he permits me in that hammer, I feel the strength of his healing magic when I aid those who have fallen. But I could not help her."

"We did not have time…"

"As much as it pleases me to hear you attempting kindness, my lady, and please do not think that I rebuff it, we did have time. My strength gave out," his voice became a hard growl as he spoke now, "I should have at least had the power to grant death to the worthless, blackened soul of her grandfather, of _Ammon Jerro_."

"Now you really don't sound like yourself," the Moon Elf sighed – in truth she had expected this kind of reaction from the paladin; she had seen it in his eyes as Shandra died, "I know you're angry, and you're grieving…"

"This is not grief, or anger, my lady," he denied suddenly, looking around at her sharply, one tear trickling over his cheek, "This is guilt. I am _guilty_ of injustice. I failed Ophala in my youth, when perhaps I could have been forgiven my foolishness, and now again, after thirty-four summers in this world, I fail again, because I could not love the one I was meant to love."

"For you to have such a belief was the intention of the devil we faced, Casavir," Isaviel reminded him softly, putting a hand on his strong shoulder and seeing him turn away, so incongruously weak, "She implied that, she forced us to think that we felt things that we did not…"

"No. Lies never can wound so deeply as truths, not in the course of time – the devil we heard spoke truly. This reality will only burn the worse, as my life wanes. This guilt is born of truth that overshadows any lies the evil creatures we met could have woven. The Erinyes's pull on mortality is her ability to see one's greatest desires and fears. She saw them all, in all of us."

"You can't know that. And no one ever loves exactly as they should," Isaviel suggested, "My foster-father and I never loved each other as strongly as we should, and I never saw Merring's honesty until I saw him dead at my feet. These things that our enemies do to us to scare us, weaken us, divide us…they shouldn't make us react this way. We lash out in anger because we're afraid they're right. Of course they're right, but the truth of our feelings is not necessarily bad. If we thought that, then we'd all be lost. Love comes, it goes, and it's an idealistic lie to think that we'll keep it forever. I think Shandra knew that. I don't think she begrudged you, and I don't think it stopped her from trying to get what she wanted."

As she spoke, she felt a pang go through her heart that she had not expected. _Love_. Why did that word pull at her so much? A shiver ran over her skin, a cold breath of wind and her throat constricted for a moment. Bishop. Why did she think of him now?

"Isaviel," the paladin whispered, another tear falling now, "I did not love her, though I persuaded myself that I could. And I cannot love Elanee, though she has told me that is how she feels for me."

The Moon Elf stared at him, but tried not to see, or to understand. Her goal was to help, for once in her life – in honour of Shandra and Merring, who died believing in her as no one else had. Her own words surprised her, and they had certainly shocked Casavir, but she did believe them, and she needed her belief to help him now, so she continued.

"To let guilt divide us, and doubt destroy you…of course that's how they want you to feel, to make you think all that you do is worth nothing. But you know better really, and Shandra understood that about you. We might think that you're paladinic honour is a little…overbearing at times," she smiled to him as much as she could bring herself to, "And not everyone I keep around me gets on all that well, but we do fight together well – and we've succeeded so far, albeit not without cost," she agreed when he began to interrupt, "Even though she died saving us, she succeeded in defeating Ammon Jerro as well. We can't be hasty about him, because we need him."

"_You_ do not sound like _your_self anymore, my lady," the paladin smiled weakly, "You sound like her."

"I'm glad," the Moon Elf laughed, though tears fell as well, "I've been trying really hard here."

They knelt in silence then, though the gravity of the situation felt painfully alien to Isaviel, her fingers drifting down Casavir's arm and closing around his hand, gripping tightly. He did not move away, and they remained that way as dawn rose fully over Crossroad Keep, cold and barely seen beyond the white clouds of midwinter.

* * *

"Highcliff has not yet been attacked. It should be safe enough over the next few days to get the cart to her old home. I would not linger however," Daeghun warned two hours later when Casavir, Elanee and Khelgar, bruised but conscious once more, stood at the gates, armed, armoured and wrapped in furs.

Shandra's coffin had been placed upon a cart, ready to leave; the paladin and the Dwarf had insisted upon going with the small contingent of guards heading down the High Road to take the woman's body back to her old home near Highcliff. It was a six day journey there and back on horseback in this weather, not daring to take the less travelled – but more direct – roads in such dangerous times.

"We will endeavour to travel swift and true, Daeghun," Elanee responded as the others nodded goodbye, wheeling their horses around and heading through the gatehouse after the cart and its guards, "When we return I would dearly wish to hear what you have to tell me of the Mere."

"And I shall, good druid," the Elven ranger responded fervently – as fervently as Daeghun ever did respond, at least – and nodded to her once; she responded in kind, looking to Isaviel as well, and then followed the others.

"Your friend was a great loss," Daeghun noted softly as the gates had been brought down after the travellers, and Isaviel turned to look at him, assuming he meant something more leading with his words, but there was nothing to be gleaned from his sharp-featured face, appearing tanned even in this weather.

"Many of us will miss her," Isaviel agreed.

"But not all?"

"Neeshka is too pragmatic about the lives of others to care overly much, and Mae'rillar never knew Shandra. I can't imagine much other than 'duty first, sense later' from someone like Kana or Sir Nevalle, though he did give her that armour. And Sand…well, you know him. He's been so caught up in his studies and his spells I'm surprised he's not killed himself with exhaustion by now."

"You are needlessly judgemental, and deliberately misleading," Daeghun admonished coldly, turning and beginning to walk away back towards the keep, knowing Isaviel was bound that way as well and would therefore follow him, in spite of herself, "You do understand the service Elanee does you this day by riding out with your two warrior friends?"

"Not really," Isaviel shrugged, frowning at his abrasive tone, "She knows the lands near Highcliff. And she won't be second best in getting Casavir's attention, not even to a corpse."

"She is travelling on the day of the new year festival when by her rights she should stay here and observe them. She worships the gods of nature; Silvanus, Chauntea, Mielikki. It is her duty to celebrate this time for them, though she might grieve. She is showing to all of you her devotion to this cause by helping those who would fight in it."

"Then all the better for us," Isaviel dismissed his words utterly as they stepped inside the keep, and as the doors closed the Elf turned to face her, frowning deeply.

"Do not pretend to be so callous, Isaviel, I heard your words to the paladin in the temple."

"You listened in on my conversation?" Isaviel balked, then her tone became mocking, even as she noticed Sand, and the newly conscious – and apparently unharmed – Qara approaching across the busy, rowdy main hall with Zhjaeve following, "Isn't that supposed to be a holy place? Or did you bribe the priests?"

"It is my duty to learn if you will be a good captain of this keep. If you are not, then I will advise the leadership of the city against you – should they fail to listen, then I will give aid to someone else more worthy," Daeghun responded so coldly, his eyes momentarily flashing with such anger, that Isaviel forgot all about how he had dressed her wounds, and how he had fallen asleep in her armchair.

"Always such a loving father," Isaviel spat, "Your trust is astounding."

"Know that now is not the time to argue," Zhjaeve interrupted, stepping between the pair, "The one we have in the dungeons is not the King of Shadows, but he certainly has information we need."

"At least we made sure that Ammon Jerro was dead before we blundered into his haven," Bishop threw in sarcastically, just stepping through the closing gates, eyeing Daeghun with a sourly distrustful air, "Saved us all a lot of trouble, that did."

"Yes, yes," Sand sighed, smirking when Isaviel rolled her eyes, "We all know he's alive now, Bishop. Too much of that 'wit' of yours in the wrong places and we might start to think that you are utterly stupid."

"Oh really," the ranger sneered, looking the wizard up and down once, then shrugging and stepping past them, "Maybe that's what I want you to think."

"Wouldn't take much effort," Qara added derisively, "I saw what you did in the battle. One of your pathetic arrows isn't going to kill me."

"I wouldn't say that if I were you," the ranger snarled suddenly, doubling back and leaning closer to her, enough that some of the guards nearby bristled automatically, "My arrow won't miss when I _mean_ it for your throat, little girl."

"I think the important thing to remember here is that he's more powerful than we'd ever imagined, after all that 'helpful' information Aldanon showered upon us," Isaviel pointed out, finally stepping away from Daeghun and moving for the large double doors in the left wall.

"More powerful than some wizard, anyway," Qara sniffed, looking pointedly at Sand.

"More powerful than you, Qara," the wizard responded sharply, "And you would do well to believe me before you learn that a warlock's fires will burn you just as easily as they would me."

"Alright then, if he's so tough, what do you think we should do about him, high and mighty wizard?" the sorcerer demanded and Isaviel ground her teeth in frustration at their open bickering, right in front of all the guards, gesturing pointedly towards the doors.

"We could imprison him, and let the Watch have him after we've learned what we can from him," Sand shrugged, but Daeghun stepped up to them, shaking his head gravely, only for Bishop to get a word in first.

"Tell me you're joking, wizard," the ranger demanded, "He would blow up the whole city just for fun and then come back for us. I say we get what we want for him and kill him. To the Hells with 'justice'. He gave Shandra a hard death…I'd enjoy giving him one."

"We could just tie stones round his ankles and drop him off the docks," Qara shrugged, looking about almost innocently when everyone looked to her incredulously, "What? You didn't look at Bishop like that. And anyway, the water would put out his fire before he'd have a chance to free himself…or…something."

"Gods, will you all just shut up?" Isaviel exclaimed, "We have to learn what we can from him. It might be that we need more from him once we've found out the truth," she shared an uncomfortable glance with Zhjaeve, "I think I might know why, too."

"He murdered Shandra Jerro," the Githzerai put in softly, "And he must answer for that. But we cannot answer murder with murder – I think our leader understands this."

Everyone looked to Isaviel now, and the expectant looks made her more than nervous, her hands balling into fists. Daeghun had stepped up to join them at a short distance, watching closely – no matter how angrily she looked at him, he did not back off, those sharp eyes taking everything in, judging everyone just as closely as he had told her she should not.

"I say we let our 'leader' handle Ammon," Bishop nodded at last now, as acidic as ever, but his expression was serious, dark eyes staring at her with an intensity that made her shiver a little, "Something tells me she'll straighten him out."

"That is for the best," Zhjaeve agreed, "The will of Ammon Jerro is broken and that makes him dangerous, but also of use to us."

The Githzerai waved for the guards to open the doors, and the others stepped through while Isaviel watched the ranger curiously, raising her eyebrows when he smirked at her, stepping forward once the others had moved on. He stepped closer, not quite touching her, his body so close as he continued to step past that she could feel its heat. Staring in his wake before following, Isaviel bit her lip and shook her head in frustration, wondering at why he was treating her like that now when he had been so distant after their little run in with Hezebel. Glancing back, she saw Daeghun glaring at her and rushed after the others to hide the red colouring her cheeks.

The stairs down to the dungeons, opposite the banquet hall of all places, had been refurbished with a new polished rail, and the door had more locks and wards on it than before – a strange set-up really, given that the pantry lay on the floor below, above the dungeons. This was a familiar path, though the corridor was now lit, dusted and covered in a long woven carpet, the din of the officers off duty in the banquet hall behind them, the smells of the kitchen around the corner. They had taken it when descending to the very bottom level of the keep to face Black Garius.

One armed soldier led the group down the spiral stairs, fixed so that they were broader than before, with shallower steps, carrying a torch to light the way. There were guards stationed at the door to the pantry, and another pair deeper down, in front of the dungeon door, now tellingly locked. They pull aside the bolts and undid the three heavy padlocks, but the door only opened when Sand spoke the appropriate phrase, breaking the wards. A glow of purple light fizzed up the doorframe, and then they were free to pass. As they did so, Isaviel did not fail to notice a twisting set of wooden ramps had been set up to allow passage to the basement where she had fought Garius. No doubt this was from the effort the soldiers had been forced to make to remove the Luskan wizard's corpse, and those of his acolytes. For all the good it had done them. He had been far harder to kill when she had met him in death, and her skin crawled at the memory. The marks he had left on her neck would add to her collection of scars, large and red and terribly visible.

There was no natural light to be had in these ancient dry dungeons – which were far from extensive; only three doors, of thick oak reinforced with iron, stood in the grim stone room ahead. Again, the central door was warded, and Sand had to speak several phrases to break these glyphs even before the soldier with them could unlock it. He nodded and saluted then, his eyes nervous, placing the torch in a sconce in the walls and stepping outside.

"Why did you bring her back to my haven?" Ammon Jerro's gruff voice greeted them bitterly through the deep darkness, and it took a moment before Isaviel's eyes switched to darkvision, the torchlight too feeble to reach the corner in which the old warlock sat, slumped on his hard sleeping tablet, "Although she was of my blood you knew that she did not have the strength to survive there."

He stood then, stepping forward into the light, his eyes, shining white-grey, were just as luminous as the orange tattoos across his lined face. His beard was red, shot through with grey and silver, though his head was bald, and he had been given a plain brown robe to wear in his imprisonment. He was looking at Sand, not Isaviel, as if assuming that the wizard who had broken the wards must be the one to lead the group before him. His expression became hard when he saw Zhjaeve.

"We were told you were dead, that you died shortly after the war with the King of Shadows…but we were also told you were a humble, eccentric wizard. A jester wizard, at that," Isaviel told him coolly, looking him up and down disdainfully, "And she still defeated you, though your power was so great."

"She died to defeat me, and set the most powerful monsters of the lower planes free. That is not victory, that is stupidity," he shot back, but his expression dropped as soon as his eyes fell upon Isaviel, looking at her with some significant level of uncertainty – that made little sense.

"We did not come here to learn more about your greatest regrets. We need to know what you know about the King of Shadows, and about the silver sword. Oh…" the Moon Elf paused, her smile hard, holding a hand out towards him, "You were allowed to keep some of your possessions in there with you, but I'd very much like those shards. I've a collection, you see."

"So we face the same foe, and seek the same goals," the warlock grunted, handing the items to her from a shelf on the wall without a second thought, careful not to touch her skin as he did so, "I can sense the power of the blade which you carry with you – the blade that I once wielded against our common foe, at the Battle of West Harbour. A cursed blade, if you ask me, but it will serve your purpose, as I once intended it to serve mine."

"You fought in West Harbour?" Isaviel gasped, "Then…you wielded the sword when it broke…"

"And a piece lodged inside you. Then I would deduce it was your wails I heard all those years ago," Ammon shrugged, gesturing towards her, "That would explain why the shards gain power in your grasp…although that power should not be so great," he watched her with strangely nervous eyes, searching her face, watching her expressions as she glared at him distrustfully, as if trying to deduce an answer from her very being.

"How did you not destroy the King of Shadows before? How do you still live?"

"The…sword broke before I could kill him, but his armies were defeated by my demons and Neverwinter's soldiers – at the last the Githyanki even joined their side to drive him away, though I do not doubt that they sought me fiercely after the fighting was done. I still live, girl, because I am damned," he spoke the words so calmly, but there was a flicker of ancient anger in his eyes, "Because a Pit Fiend dragged me to the Hells and there I suffered for these past thirty years, tormented for attempting to defeat the King of Shadows…and failing. I did not know of the Ritual of Purification before, the rite which will allow one to push past the power with which the King of Shadows shattered the Sword of Gith decades ago."

"Then it really is the Sword of the Gith?" Isaviel stared down wonderingly at the two new shards in her hand, one tiny and plain, the other as large as her palm, a red jewel beneath its surface.

"Kalach-cha," Zhjaeve agreed in a whisper, earning a disbelieving glare from Bishop, "And note his words. He knows of the Ritual of Purification…you must know that it is he who has carried it out, as well."

"Yes, your pet Githzerai speaks truly, though she goes about it as tidily as Zaxis might have feasted upon you. Those shards are indeed part of the original greatsword of Gith; I wielded the original weapon, whole, but it will not require every piece to be remade again. You need just one more, the other central red stone, before you can attempt to re-forge it, and to wound the King of Shadows as I did," Ammon Jerro told Isaviel sternly, and she gripped the pieces hard when she looked up at him again, "I can be of more use to you in the world above, in the battle to come, than I can be here in this cell. You cannot defeat the King of Shadows without the Ritual of Purification…nor can you defeat the Shadow Reavers, for to my knowledge there is no other living being left with the understanding to decipher their true names in the Tome of Iltkazar."

He nodded a quick, sharp nod, as if of encouragement, when he saw the determination in Isaviel's eyes. Though it hurt her to admit it, it would seem that he was right. She needed him to fight with them – and one of his power would certainly be useful. He seemed to be brutally pragmatic, and so tired of life, that she knew Zhjaeve was right – his will was broken, at least for himself, but he did seem determined to defeat their common foe.

"Then you are free to join us," Isaviel agreed at length, to the surprised exclamations of both Bishop and Sand – the grin that spread across Qara's face was perhaps more worrying, "Though you are not free to go."

"Agreed," Ammon Jerro nodded more forcefully, and not a hint of a smile came to his lips – to his credit, he did not gloat at this victory against his captor, "You will need aid to understand the workings of the sword - and whether you like it or not you _are_ now that weapon. I have seen you fight, and you fight like one who is used to winning – or running. There will be no running from this battle with the King of Shadows. He can see you like a silver beacon against his darkness, for you carry a piece of the sword in your chest. Should you flee this keep, and the city which holds you here, he will hunt you down, and when you do not have an army at your back you will be no match for him."

Sand ceased his hissed disagreements when he heard those words, his shoulders slumping, and when he looked to Isaviel now he lowered his sad eyes; she understood what that look meant. He was agreeing, though he did not wish to.

"I will pay for my pacts and crimes for millennia when I die. There are places reserved in the Hells for ones like me," Ammon told them at length, glaring first at Sand and then at Bishop before looking to Zhjaeve, "And I know you doubt me, but I am your only hope in this war, and it is time you agreed. There is much to be done, and little time left."


	30. The God of Scapegoats and Isolation

In spite of the cold weather, the New Year festival was held outside, beginning at dusk – an early start, then, given that the sun sank below the horizon so quickly at that time of year. It seemed like an excuse to raise morale to Isaviel – not something she knew much about, but she understood that it was important at least. A little pavilion had been set up just outside the keep's gates, overlooking the festivities around the large fire built specially for the occasion. Here the officers dined on cheese, meat and the freshest bread they could find. Someone had managed to wangle the Mereberry pie recipe from Daeghun, or perhaps he had even made it, but such was served after the main course. Wine and ale were drunk by the barrel-full, and it made the Moon Elf think of Shandra's legendary tolerance for alcohol. She could have beaten Khelgar even with a head start.

Sir Nevalle and Kana flanked the Moon Elf, as was customary, while Sand and Grobnar sat nearby. The Gnome kept sloshing his ale dangerously close to the wizard's fine green velvet doublet, but whatever the bard was saying it appeared to have genuinely caught Sand's attention. Daeghun, dressed in his finest clothes (the only time of year he could be coaxed into them, in fact), had been given a place amongst them and had struck up a conversation with Mae'rillar. The Drow was dressed in a startlingly thin silk shirt, and just above its loose lacing glinted a necklace, showing a full moon with a long-hilted sword across its face. Whatever that meant, it had been the beginning of their interaction, and though both remained stilted and formal, it looked like they were getting along remarkably well, considering.

Neeshka looked tired and pale; the Moon Elf knew her friend's side was heavily bandaged from when she had visited the Tiefling earlier in the day. She was slumping ever more completely against Mae'rillar, and the Drow's arm had found its way around her shoulders. For once she was not drinking…and she was not talking to anyone. This reminded Isaviel a great deal of the Tiefling's response to the burning of Ember. She would never relate directly to those who died, but she felt the horror all the same. She would need time, but she would recover.

Zhjaeve sat in silence, watching all those around her, barely drinking and not eating, staring down at the revelries in the main bailey as if she was not aware of Sand and Grobnar talking increasingly heatedly of golems, or of Daeghun and Mae'rillar discussing Eilistraee. For her part, Isaviel was falling asleep between Kana and Nevalle, who were discussing how they decided to join the army. Her answer would be a quick one: 'I didn't' should suffice.

Qara's place had been with them but after the food had been given out she had moved over to the little table at which Ammon Jerro was seated with some simple fare. He did not seem overly impressed by her presence, but the longer they spoke the more he talked, and she looked as animated as Isaviel had ever seen her to be. An evil warlock and a power crazed sorcerer? Hardly a safe combination. From the looks of the on-duty guards nearby, their topics were far from tame.

Bishop had not made an appearance amongst his companions – perhaps he had known he would be expected to sit next to Qara. Or perhaps he preferred not to endure the manners of a staged meal. Isaviel could sympathise with both issues, especially when her head nodded forward in weariness and she nearly knocked her still-full wine glass from the table.

Sighing, the captain of Crossroad Keep excused herself and, wrapping herself in her cloaks, headed down the path towards the main revelries. It was loud and cheerful, the whole world seeming to smell of burning firewood and strong wine. Most men had gathered around the main fire, laughing drunkenly, but the emotions did not touch Isaviel, as much as she saw them to be all around her. Daeghun had glanced up as she left the table, and she knew he understood. During this one night of each year, in the dark moments of the start of midwinter, Isaviel honoured her mother's god, Fenmarel Mestarine.

Isaviel paused a moment or two, staring at the drunken revelries. Someone had picked up a crude lute and begun to sing almost as tunelessly as Grobnar about some old legend. Something about a man who betrayed his god for love, and was killed for trying to save that dead wife, his curse spread through his sons. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Isaviel did not stay to find out. Heading towards the section of the walls which had not yet been completed, feet pressing lightly against untouched snow, Isaviel saw Karnwyr stepping out in front of her before she heard Bishop behind her.

"What do you want?" she sighed, turning away from the gaping exit, barely six feet away, and seeing the ranger standing before her.

"I saw you go into the temple today," he growled disdainfully, stepping forward; her monochrome darkvision showed to her that he was dressed in a plain dark tunic and trousers beneath his thick fur-lined cloak and matching boots. His expression was unreadable, and she knew he could only just see her in the distant flickering of the fires.

"Oh did you," she rolled her eyes, turning away again, "Everyone has been spying on me today."

He caught her shoulder and pulled her back to face him, staring down at the Moon Elf with blazing eyes, shaking her once, his grip hard. He was not dressed for travel – or battle, unusually – though he did still carry his longsword, his bow across his back.

"And why would I not when I saw you kiss him?" he snarled, his eyes flickering to her lips with a rather evident longing as she quirked an eyebrow.

"You know the devil forced it from us," the Moon Elf smiled as he leaned a little closer, running one of her gloved fingers over his chest, "And he was – and is – weak in his grief now. I had to play on something to make him believe. He is a useful fighter, but a boring man. I am not a fool, Bishop. I know he wants me, but I'll never want him."

"You kissed him with enough passion," the ranger pointed out, though there was a little doubt in his voice now, "How do I know you didn't just do that again to win him over to you?"

Seeing an emotional foothold here, at least enough of one to give her hope of dissuading the ranger's deepest suspicions, Isaviel succeeded in controlling her expression – she did not want him to see her doubt. She had already just lied through her teeth.

"_He_ kissed _me_ with passion," she corrected him, "And the devil told me not to stint. I wouldn't want to have to do it again," she bit at his lip when he leaned closer and he hissed at her, a slight smile appearing when she let him go, "Although," she grinned now when he pulled her to him hard, as if sensing her next teasing words, "There is something to be said for a paladin's aura…if I weren't given a proper contender for that, well, I might just get a taste for…"

He did not give her a chance to finish, snarling even as he dragged her to him, slamming her against the wall of the nearest building, kissing her with fierce passion, something which only grew as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She wondered at what she had ever seen in Casavir, forgot about him entirely, and she heard herself groan – or was it Bishop? Perhaps it was both of them. As he drew back, she noticed for a second time how his eyes showed his more elusive, vulnerable emotions in the dark. Where was that anger and that disdain? He could not see her face clearly, and pressing her against the wall, in the shadows and out of sight from any prying eyes, he did not seem able to keep up his control.

"Where are you going, oh Mighty Captain?" the ranger whispered, just about managing to keep his tone mocking, but Isaviel just smiled against his cheek , closing her eyes and wishing she could always feel as she did then with him. He did not seem to be aware of it, but he was still holding her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other slowly tracing the lines of the new scars on her neck.

"I must attend to the New Year rites of my god, oh faithless ranger," Isaviel laughed when he grunted in derision.

"What has that god ever done for you? How can you even know that he exists?"

"Come with me and you might see," Isaviel suggested softly against his ear, "Or you might not. Fenmarel Mestarine is the Lone Wolf, and he might not take kindly to me bringing a guest. _Especially _a human guest."

"You're going into the deep, dark, dangerous woods, and you didn't invite me?" Bishop pretended to be hurt by her words, pulling her against him again, pressing his forehead to hers, "Forget your god. That can wait. I'm not done with you yet, Isaviel."

* * *

The woods were utterly silent and terribly cold, the snow deep and untouched by the feet of any animal. Isaviel made no more sound as she made her way deep amongst those trees, breathing softly in little puffs of white air. She was far enough away by now that she could not hear the festivities at Crossroad Keep, and she had found time enough as she trod her path to calm the beating of her heart after Bishop's passionate kisses. Only once she knew that she was alone did she stop amongst the trees, in the deep winter darkness, and kneel in the snow, listening.

Silence stretched; there was not the call of an animal, nor the whisper of wind through the snowy trees. Here the shadows felt as safe as they always had before, not full of the heavy darkness permeated through the tainted lands of the King of Shadows, and the peace finally made her smile. She could forget for just a moment that she should be grieving, that she was captain of Crossroad Keep, a fort garrisoned against a threat which was ruining the Mere and its surrounding lands. The pain of her injuries, and the thoughts of the scars she had gained faded as she felt herself lighten and fade as well, becoming as substantial as the shadows in which she danced.

The words her mother had said at this time of year, every year, came back to her with ease. She had done this over thirty times in her life; these words were the only thing she remembered of her mother, and after Esmerelle died Daeghun had insisted that after the first three years she did it alone. She suspected that he might have followed her into the marshes secretly at least until she was twelve; not even Daeghun was so matter of fact as to leave a _defenceless _child out in the dangerous wilds.

"The world is cold and cruel, and only the darkness and the ice are my constant companions," she whispered, staring around at the night-time world of winter, "Its demands are without mercy for any who wish to make their own way in life. I do not rely on others for my safety because betrayal is easier than loyalty, and I would do the same. I rely on camouflage, deceit and my own secrets, which I keep for myself and give to no one. I follow the Lone Wolf, because his way is the path of independent thought and life."

Isaviel saw the flicker of a change in the darkness before she heard it, a shape so utterly black that it was silhouetted against the shadows. The blue light around its skull blazed into being, stinging her eyes, but she avoided shielding her face lest it strike at her then. Staying utterly still, she realised that the Shadow Reaver had not seen her, a hiss coming from its skull as if it were sniffing the air. The monstrous creature of shadow, sucking in the darkness and making it even blacker, hard to see even with her darkvision, turned first one way and then the other, but still did not seem to notice the Moon Elf barely three feet behind it.

She watched in silence as magical energy began to grow in the monster's hands; it did not speak, and it was significantly smaller than Black Garius's incarnation, so she had to assume that it was a different Shadow Reaver. One thing she did know for certain was that they had played a part in the deaths of those people in West Harbour, some of whom she had cared for more than she had realised. Anger started to well inside her as the Shadow Reaver's current prey stepped into view, a silent shadow himself, stalking through the trees, eyes blazing red. The symbol of Eilistraee around his neck glinted silver as Mae'rillar pulled free his longswords in a flash of movement, bringing the blades together in front of him. They reflected the crackling roar of magic aimed his way, sending it crashing into the snow between himself and the monster.

A grating cackle did erupt from the monster then, as the darkness thinned, coalescing and rising like running ink into vague humanoid shapes, blue eyes glinting with light of their own as they drew in around the Drow. His blades sang as he spun them about himself, and the Shadow Reaver only watched now as many grasping hands surrounded Mae'rillar. Isaviel found herself staring as well, shaking with rage, but biding her time – and unable to look away from the skill that the Drow displayed. Not once did any of those summoned creatures touch him, but already he had severed several grasping fingers and darkness was pouring like blood from their wounds. When the first of the summoned shades stumbled back with a shriek , dissolving into nothing, Isaviel pounced, burying both of her daggers to the hilts through the Shadow Reaver's back and into its skull. The attack sent fiery magical energy arcing in blue streaks over her weapons, burning her hands, and when she stumbled back, snarling in pain, the monster only turned around, its blazing eyes meeting hers.

Unarmed now, she readied herself to pounce again, feeling her anger starting to take her over as it never had before. Though the magical rebound had hurt…it had only stirred her ire, until the scar over her chest was aching horribly and she could feel blood trickling over her skin from where it had torn. Somehow she found herself blaming this cackling vision of evil, and when she dived towards it she crashed through its next blast of magic, barely noticing its bruising pain and the way it continued to fizz inside her. Some_thing _in her chest, where the shard was, seemed to twist and shriek with a voice of its own, and the magic poured back out of her mouth when she yelled in agony, tearing through the Shadow Reaver, which shuddered beneath her grasp. It stumbled, claws raking at her back, and she heard a hum, and a thud. The monster took an unsteady step back, roaring, an arrow embedded in its shoulder, and the shadows troubling Mae'rillar seemed to wane a little, two dispersing entirely.

A second arrow hummed past Isaviel's ear as the Shadow Reaver twisted, strangely unable to fling her from it even as she pummelled it rather ineffectually with her fists, her inexplicable anger beyond reason.

She saw the Reaver's arm warping into the shape of a black blade, dragging the shadows forming Mae'rillar's foes back into its own body. Someone shouted her name in horror, another arrow plunged into the monster's back, hardly seeming to do a thing, and then another two at once. She started to twist away from the serrated black blade when it came for her, but the Shadow Reaver caught her now and paused a moment as the tip rested above her heart, that horrible laugh rattling in its dead, dark-shrouded form as she raised her eyes.

The blue light in its skull looked different now, brighter, filling her entire vision, and the agony twisted and tore beneath her skin again, that shriek coming with it. To her own horror, four strands of red mist reached from her scar, melting the darkness from the shuddering Shadow Reaver until she could see its rotting ribcage beneath her hands while the tendrils writhed upwards and plunging into its skull. The monster screamed in a many-voiced cry that shook the snow from the trees around them, blue light pouring out of it and plunging back down into Isaviel as the monster's quickly-dissipating body collapsed on top of her.

Her vision exploded in a burst of blue and she fell with a thump into the snow, her whole body taut with agony. Two forms ran over to her, their hands like burning flames against her skin…and as the blue light drifted away, so did her pain, her eyes clearing, and she blinked up into Bishop's face as the clouds broke apart, revealing the moon and her tears. She realised he must have followed her into the woods after all – her planned solitude for the year had been broken.

"My…my scar," she gasped, pushing aside the fabric of her tunic to see…that it looked just as it always had, healed again though blood had dried on her skin from the wound.

"What in all the hells did you just do?" Bishop hissed, putting an arm around her shoulders and raising her a little, her head lolling back before she caught a glimpse of Mae'rillar standing back now, staring at her.

"You pulled his soul from him," the Drow responded where she could not, sheathing his blades, "Though how that is possible, I do not know. Beware, however; he did not die tonight. I watched his spirit flee, on a course for the Mere."

"_How_ in the hells did she just do it?" Bishop demanded, but the Drow only shrugged.

"What were you doing out here?" Isaviel asked weakly, and Mae'rillar smiled.

"Worshipping my own god, as you did yours."

"Fat lot of good it did either of you," Bishop sneered, lifting Isaviel easily in his arms when she showed no signs of being able to stand, looking down at her with a mocking smirk, "Perhaps you should worship me. I came to your 'aid' when you called for your god, didn't I?"

"Yes, but it wasn't you who saved me," Isaviel pointed out.

The ranger's laughter was sweet to her, for she heard it so rarely.

* * *

"The captain of Crossroad Keep should not be travelling outside the castle walls alone," Kana complained once she and Isaviel's friends met the Moon Elf and Bishop in the captain's rooms of the keep. Daeghun came as well, to her annoyance, while Mae'rillar helped a pained Neeshka back to their accommodation.

"Hardly helpful words in light of what happened, Lieutenant," Isaviel disagreed, leaning back in her chair and feeling dreadfully weary , her eyes turning to Ammon Jerro, standing in stern silence by the door, "As it turned out, both Bishop and Mae'rillar were nearby, so I was _not_ alone. But that is irrelevant now – what we need to know is how to kill those things properly. And what happened to me out there."

She ignored Sand's troubled expression, waiting for the warlock to respond instead. Though her wizard friend undoubtedly had several theories, she suspected Ammon Jerro actually had some answers. Qara was just staring at her across the table in a mixture of horrified disbelief and awe after hearing the Moon Elf's account of the battle in the woods.

"It is quite clear that you removed the Reaver's spirit from its housing," Zhjaeve explained unbidden from her place at the central table with Sand and Qara; Grobnar had been so drunk when Bishop brought Isaviel to the pavilion that they had left him to sing his songs to the guards.

"Your riddles will hardly help matters, Gith," Ammon Jerro spat derisively, folding his arms across his chest and watching Isaviel distrustfully, "Your body attempted to devour his spirit, and I imagine the shard in your chest rebuffed that attempt. Has this ever happened to you before?"

"No, never," the Moon Elf felt herself recoiling at his words, "I've felt the rage before…I've felt the urge to do what I did, but it's never actually gone that far." Her gaze turned accusingly to Daeghun then, while Ammon Jerro spoke.

"Curious. Something of that nature does not occur from taught power; it is inherited, normally the manifestation of some family curse," the warlock shrugged, "As long as this new occurrence proves useful in our war against the King of Shadows it hardly matters where it came from."

"Not until she's trying to devour all of our souls, too," Qara sniffed, glaring at Isaviel as if she expected the Moon Elf to start right then.

"I will go to Aldanon at once and begin to decipher the Reavers' true names from the Tome of Iltkazar. You may be capable of disabling them for a time, but that is the only way by which they may be killed permanently," Ammon Jerro stated dismissively, turning away and opening the door.

"Did Esmerelle tell you nothing of Isaviel's father, Daeghun?" Sand demanded with sudden frustration, turning to the Elvish ranger who stood so emotionlessly by the wall.

Ammon stilled at the door, looking around sharply with a disbelieving look which Isaviel did not fail to notice.

"Esmerelle?" the warlock hissed, and all eyes turned to him as Daeghun responded to Sand acidly.

"She never offered the information to me, Sand, and I never asked. There was sadness in her eyes when she returned pregnant, and I never pried. It is not the Elvish way, as you should know well."

"You speak of Esmerelle of Evereska," Ammon stated flatly now, looking right at Isaviel with new understanding, "I see her in you very clearly, Elf."

"You knew her?" Isaviel exclaimed, feeling cold dread seeping through her body, her eyes narrowing, "_How_ did you know her?"

"She aided me in recovering the Sword of Gith a little less than four years before the Battle in West Harbour, over the years of 1341 and 1342 of Dale Reckoning," the warlock explained, his tone even bitterer than it had been before, "She was the most skilled fighter I ever met…and I repaid her poorly for it."

"Then you knew her in the time when I must have been conceived! You must know who my father was," Isaviel told him heatedly, leaning forward in her chair, imploring, but his expression only darkened and he turned away sharply, moving towards the door again just as Sir Nevalle stepped through without knocking, the knight's expression grave.

"I will not speak of those times," the warlock said angrily, "Least of all to you. Once you learn the truth of your mother, you will regret it, I guarantee that. Suffice to say that it is not to me who you should look for your ancestry. You shared no blood with Shandra."

Isaviel was about to call after him as he left swiftly, but Sir Nevalle stepped into her vision, coughing once politely before interrupting.

"Captain, there are more pressing matters of _duty_ at hand," the knight told her firmly, his expression not wavering when she glared in his direction, "Fort Locke has fallen, and Lord Nasher demands that you return to Neverwinter with me in the morning – just you, not your friends."

"Oh," Isaviel sneered, dragging herself up to stand by Bishop's side, though her tired body rebelled, "Is it time for him to leash his rabid dog?"

* * *

…_you smell of lives shattered and hopes trod underfoot…of millions of screaming souls. I know that smell…your father still raves about your mother's screams, even in death. He is very proud of himself, I think…_

Qaggoth-Yeg's words came back to Isaviel that night, the memory of the monster's deep, rumbling voice waking her with a start from foggy dreams of an abandoned West Harbour, humid and bright in its famously hot summer. She could not get to sleep after that, not properly, no matter how hard she tried, throwing back the fur covers of her bed, drenched in sweat though the fire had died and she could see veins of frost splayed across the window over her head, glinting in the moonlight.

_…_y_our mother…from Evereska. Esmerelle, the one whose screams still echo…_ Hezebel had said those words, gloatingly – just adding to the torment that those demons and devils in Ammon's haven had known something of her family that she did not.

_ …_s_he was the most skilled fighter I ever met…and I repaid her poorly for it…once you learn the truth of your mother, you will regret it, I guarantee that…_

The more Isaviel thought of those hints about her mother, how Ammon Jerro himself had known her, fought with her…and apparently done her a great wrong of some kind, the angrier and more frustrated she became. Surely he owed her an explanation? Surely he knew that she would find out somehow? Perhaps that was exactly why he had passed over the duty of telling her. Perhaps he knew that she had one other method – one that was troublingly more appealing than dealing with a gruff warlock who had killed her friend?

_ …your blood is more like mine than your pet wizard's, Beautiful One. I met your father once…many millennia ago. He smelled of death, and he broke his vows… The book does not lie. I see him in you, and his curse. Should we ever meet after this day, I will tell you more, and the book will be yours… Seek me out. We have much to talk of, and I have a few things of yours... I will be waiting for your summons, Beautiful One…_

Mephasm's words drifted through her half-waking mind, remembered in his whispered, seductive tone, knowing that she would want to know whatever it was he was offering to her. She did, and she tossed and turned in her bed until the distant sounds of revelry died away and she knew that the middle of the night had long passed, the silence heralding in a new year.

…_I did not love her, though I persuaded myself that I could. And I cannot love Elanee, though she has told me that is how she feels for me._

Casavir had spoken those words so sadly, yet with such certainty. It seemed so out of character for him to knowingly deceive another, especially someone as good and kind as Shandra. He had certainly been greatly fond of her – the look in his eyes was always tender when he had turned to see her. That was not duty, but it was also not love, Isaviel could agree with that. Love was not always a gentle thing, and she was unhappily aware of that increasingly regarding herself.

…_you do not know what it is you will suffer. Betrayal, pain, death, loss…The Lamentations of the Dead…he does not love her, though you might think he does. Both your hearts will break soon enough I think…_

Hezebel had known somehow that Casavir had not loved Shandra, that was clear now, just as she had seen through Elanee's misery. But she had listed off events; 'betrayal, pain, death, loss' as if she was somehow prophesying the future of Isaviel's life. What could she have meant by 'the lamentations of the dead'? Qaggoth-Yeg had mentioned 'millions of screaming souls', and that sounded connected. Regardless, the Moon Elf hoped to all the gods that the Erinyes was lying, for that future did not sound like one to which she could look forward.

Ideas of the future made her think of Bishop, or rather it made her realise how little she had allowed herself to think of him. It had always been her way in easier times, cavorting through the Neverwinter Docks with Neeshka, stealing, running, fighting, killing when she needed, laughing when she wanted to, kissing who she wanted to, sleeping with whom she chose. Bishop was an anomaly, because they had slept together often for nearly four months straight; she, at least, had been monogamous over that time. She had tried her best not to think too deeply about it; he was fair to look upon, as she had noticed those many tendays past, and increasingly his passion with her outdid his aggression with others. She had found herself watching him when she should have been listening to Kana, or someone with an equal sense of mind-dulling duty. Guiltily, she realised that she found it far harder to sleep when he was not there with her – but this night she was glad for his absence. There was something she had to do, once the keep was asleep.

_ …tell your…'lovely' friend what it means for you to defend her, to journey with her, and what it really meant when this… "Duncan" saved you…I have planted a seed that will grow in time…_

That was why she could not trust him with this – though she might have feelings for him that she dared not give names to, Isaviel was under no illusions. There were those among her friends who she could trust; Sand most of all, but Khelgar as well, and there were those with whom she had an unspoken agreement. She and Neeshka did not trust each other, she and Bishop did not trust each other. No one trusted Qara. The Moon Elf's trust only went so far, anyway – the words of her god were strong in her mind that night, after all.

Though whatever she had done to the Shadow Reaver had made Isaviel weary beyond anything she had ever felt, that did not seem to equate to allowing her sleep. She had to know more about her heritage, because an event like that meant that it was far more real in her life, probably more dangerous, than a few cryptic hints from devils and demons. But it was those devils and demons who gave her hope that she could find out more…before she forced the truth from Ammon Jerro.

That night, Isaviel finally made use of one of the dresses Kana had left for her in her room; it was simple, unhelpfully long and of lilac-dyed wool – not at all like something she would normally wear. In the darkness, her dark blue hair, falling past her waist now that it was uncharacteristically unbound, would appear black to feeble human eyes. It was an easy disguise, only aided by the strange grey that her eyes became in the lack of light.

Ammon had brought several items with him, salvaged speedily from his laboratory before the building had presumably collapsed. Amongst those possessions were several books of spells or arcane information – they were kept in a locked safe in the library to which his new room was adjoined, just beyond the bed in which Aldanon slept. That meant there would be several guards to get past, and Isaviel wished she could simply use her power over the keep to command the guards aside, but she knew that Sir Nevalle was the one who had stationed them by the library. This was not just to make a statement to Ammon Jerro about his captivity, but more importantly to guard his books from _anyone_ who might want to read them.

Isaviel took the simplest route from her room to the library, traversing the long winding corridors of the keep on silent bare feet. Most of the cold stone passages ahead of her rooms were empty; she had waited until the change of the guard outside her door and chosen the servants' passage until she was beyond their sight. There the floorboards threatened to creak and the air was musty; there were more torches burning in sconces here as well and even now she could hear the distant tread of feet, for the servants would be busy through the night as well as the day. For this reason she was quick to step back into the dark, draughty main corridor which ran down the centre of the second floor of the keep, once she had passed the danger of coming upon her own guards.

Isaviel did not take the official soldiers' route to the right, down the main stairs, where four guards stood on duty and two bright torches gleamed on each wall. Instead she unlocked the door to the balcony, knowing it creaked less than the servants' entrance on the floor below. She stepped through the smallest gap she could, shrouded in darkness high up above the main hall.

Surveying the scene ahead as she closed the door quietly enough behind herself, Isaviel saw that there were two guards at attention by the main gates, several servants sweeping the floor in the relatively bright torchlight. Everyone looked tired and bored; one of the guards had started calling bawdy comments over to a harassed cleaning girl, who was trying her best to ignore him. It was into the long shadows cast by the torches that Isaviel slipped, an all but invisible figure flitting through the darkness.

The door to the corridor along which the library awaited her was a little ajar, and in her translucent state she slipped through easily. Next, she could see the guard standing at the library door, which was closed and probably locked as well. Down the curve of this cold, echoing corridor she could make out the guarded entrance of Ammon Jerro's room as well. The door there was closed, the guards at attention; that was good. The warlock must have retired for the night (or, at least, in time for the dawn).

Isaviel took great pleasure in realising that she could wait in the shadows opposite, watching the guard shifting on the door, and when he moved at the call of his companion for the change of soldiers on duty, the Moon Elf took her chance. She had never been as good at thieving as she was at fighting or sneaking, but now she moved on necessity, and plucked the key from its chain on his belt as smoothly as she had ever taken anything. He did not notice, to her great relief, and it was when he turned to salute the man outside Ammon's room, in standard courtesy traditional to the keep, that Isaviel used the barrier of his form to swiftly unlock the door, replace the key, and slide inside. Once beyond, in the deep, musty darkness of the library with the door clicking shut softly behind her, the sound lost in the thump of the guard's boots outside, Isaviel waited silently for a few brief seconds. She heard the other guard arrive, a brief exchange of words, and then all was still again. It would seem that she had aroused no suspicion.

In the two-tiered library the only sound was the gentle whistle of Aldanon's snores from his place in the far right corner, a book open on his chest, an inkwell newly knocked over, and a candle just guttering out. The shelves were full of ancient books, many probably all but illegible now after long disuse and abandonment, but some were more recent, and she recognised Aldanon's writing on a few notes pinned to some of the shelves.

There were no windows in here, and no fire for the sake of safety, so it was pitch black and cold, although the rest of the keep's well-stocked fires probably helped to stop the place freezing. The floor was softly carpeted beneath her feet, which had grown almost numb from the cold on the quick run there. It had already occurred to her that the way back would be more difficult; she would need to wait for the full change of guards at dawn to escape the library, and dare to use the servants' door on the ground floor, passing through the maids' chambers to go up the stairs. From there it would be easy; she would go via the corridor in which Bishop's room stood, and the guards on the door back to the central keep and her own quarters would not think her journey suspicious. If all went well, she would be back to her chambers in time for her hot breakfast, to pack and then meet Sir Nevalle at the gates.

For the time being however, Isaviel crossed the library floor swiftly, unseen and unheard, smiling to herself as Aldanon muttered about some less than common alchemical ingredients in his sleep. The door to the vault stood hidden behind a bookcase, just under the stairs leading up to the second tier of the library. The tricky part would be dismantling this enough to gain access to the vault – all without waking Aldanon. She suspected he would offer to help, but she needed to do this alone; the old scholar would be as likely to give her secrets away as he would to aid her beforehand. This was something she could not risk, as it might take time for her to acquire everything she needed, assuming that the information was available here at all.

With the utmost care she removed the books from the two necessary shelves – it was for this knowledge that she had been careful to ensure she was present at the time of Ammon's possessions' instatement into the vault. Each book was thick with dust, and she was mindful to make sure none of this lingered on her hands or stuck to her dress. Either way, the inevitable fingerprints would be noticeable enough for anyone looking through the library, but the dust was too thick for this to be avoided; she could only hope such a realisation took the time she needed. Next, she had to pull the shelves from their brackets, wincing to herself when one screeched against the bookcase frame. Aldanon's snores stopped, but soon started up again.

Finally, the little vault door itself stood before her; her own room key was one of only two which could open the lock and disarm the wards around the frame, glinting grey and purple in her darkvision, markings invisible to human eyes without light. The key turned smoothly in the lock with hardly a sound, and the wards flared once, allowing the door to swing open against her palm. There, before her lay a pile of three thick, dog-eared journals.

Isaviel saw almost immediately that the first book was useless to her. It appeared to be some kind of spellbook, full of runic symbols and basic diagrams of wards, along with enchantment recipes. She discarded this quickly, and the next book fell open in her hands when she picked it up. Three of its central leaves were loose and a smile grew on Isaviel's face as she read the words on the second, free for her to take and leave the rest intact. The ingredients were simple enough to acquire, and the instructions were quite detailed. She had overheard more of Ammon and Qara's discussion earlier and had learned that the circle Black Garius had created possessed the appropriate properties to allow one to call a creature to the place, and keep it in the appropriate area of power. All it would take was an offering of the correct materials and the knowledge of the creature's name.

Smiling even more as she read on, Isaviel reread the last few words in the instructions again before moving to hide the evidence of her presence: 'This is the Golden Filigree Charm necessary to summon the fallen Deva who answers to the name of Mephasm.'


End file.
